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 Portrait of V. S. Nalbandov, left Translated from Russian to English By Olga Griminger VLADIMIR SERGEEVITCH NALBANDOV’S JOURNAL
1924‐54 Comments
When I began translating my grandfather's memoirs of the three generations, I did
not know how absorbing this job would become and how interesting as well as touching
it is. What really surprised and impressed me was that my Deda wrote all this from
memory, without any documents- all the dates, dimensions, names of people and whom
they married and even of the parents of the new members of the family! Another thing
that impressed me and was most touching was the fact that even though Deda was on
crutches (he had polio when he was 11 months old) he was a beloved, functioning and
respected member of his family and took part in all activities, discussions, plans and so
forth! Even though I had heard the stories of the life in the Crimea which my family had
lived, I never realized the sizes of the estates, or the fact that besides fruit the family
also grew and produced such a variety of other things such as butter and wine.
Most interesting to me was the story of my grandfather's grandparents - how my
great-great grandfather came from Trapezund on the Black Sea as the Armenian Sarkis
Keshnivian, evidently a very simple, uneducated young man, and rose, through hard
work and intelligence, to become a rich and influential member of Simferopol society as
Sergei Nalbandian. Unfortunately Deda does not describe how my great-grandfather
met my great-grandmother, who herself had quite a history as the daughter of German
colonists.
In this story my grandfather does not write too many details of his own early life, or
the happenings before, during and after the Revolution of 1917-20; he did that in his
other writing: "Memoir and letters of Vladimir Sergeevitch Nalbandov, 1874-1954", as
did my grandmother in "Memoir of Alexandra Nikolaevna Nalbandov 1920-1947", which
I also translated and of which each one of you has a copy. My brother Alexander
translated "History of the Russian Revolution in the Crimea, Material, the years 1917
and 1918, by V.S. Nalbandov" of which I have a copy.
As in my previous translations, I tried to keep the flavor of my grandfather's writing,
even if the sentences often turned out to be unwieldy and not very good in English. I
hope that you and your descendants will enjoy reading this story, and will appreciate, as
I do, the kindness, honesty, industry, steadfastness and love shown by our forebears.
Map of the Crimea by Maximilian Dörrbecker (Chumwa), courtesy Wikimedia Commons
http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Map_of_the_Crimea.png V.S. Nalbandov
Three generations.
Part I
Pages 33-268 and 273-328
The complete disorder of the pages can be explained by the insufficient amount of
paper available. I had an old notebook which began with page 33, on hand. There was
no beginning, but in its place pages 289-328 should be inserted.
Material for the history of the Nalbandov, Schlee and F.F. Schneider families.
Page 1 Of course nobody will ever write such a history anywhere, and there is no reason at
all to do so – I am quite aware of this. But perhaps some descendants of our clan, torn
by the Revolution from its native base, and scattered all over the world, someday may
be interested to find a connection to their relatives. And for this, here are my notes
which I am writing during my stay in Bad Tölz in 1944. This work into the past was
made easier by the current sad state of affairs and a dark future, which also might
explain the occasional superfluous details.
Only three generations! – a smirking person, being used to a multi-generational
genealogy, might say. And what came before? “I do not know,” I will answer calmly.
There were two peoples, differing in everything, living on two different ends of the earth.
And almost at the same time, two representatives of these two peoples came to
Simferopol.
It seemed that everything was against them.
Both of different birth,
religious belief, equally lonesome, equally uneducated, only slightly cultured, and hardly
knowing the Russian language, they nevertheless found acceptance in Russia, and
even success through hard work. They were not told to change their religion, or their
names, they received no help but also no hindrances, and that is all that they needed.
What they achieved themselves and the following generations,
I want to tell you and
your descendants.
I am writing this story strictly from memory; there are no documents, no other papers
for me to consult. But I am writing this strictly for my descendants, and there will be no
time and no paper for rewriting, so please forgive me any oversights.
You will see that all three generations not only lived in Russia, but received from, as
well as gave, to their new country. For us, for the close-knit Nalbandov family there was
not and could not be another home country. We were not and did not feel like Germans
or Armenians, only like Russians. And our feelings of being totally Russian never could
nor would ever leave us. Two brothers stayed in Russia, my sister and I left with our
families, as so many, many Russians did. But never did we call ourselves anything but
Page 2 Russian. Katja, a German through marriage, never called herself anything but Russian
even when working with German officers, and even our little Olga recently asked me
whether she should have spoken up when she had to attend a meeting in which the
leader said that everyone present was German. And if we are told that according to our
birth we are not Russian, we must answer with the poet Igor Stevrianin:
It is not enough to be born Russian
One must be one – or one must become one!
And with deep and heartfelt conviction I will say that we became Russians, as we were
or whole life long and will remain so.
I. Grandfather Sergei Ivanovich
In the southwest corner of the Black Sea near Trapezund, between high mountains
and deep valleys, live tens of thousands of Armenians. .....If I am not mistaken, they
became Christians very early, perhaps in the 6th century. Due to geographical location
and wars, many of them moved to Central Asia, and when they returned centuries later,
they still obeyed and practiced laws and customs which had been abandoned in the
original locations many years ago. When Rome finally began to pay attention to these
Armenians, it found that they practiced their own brand of religion and obeyed their own
dogmas, and that Rome would have needed to re-christianize these people; Rome
decided to send its own representatives to unify the Armenians, but not to baptize them
anew. This is how the Armenian-Catholics formed.
Having taken this step, the
Armenians did not understand or chose to ignore their worsened situation.
The
Page 3 Armenians – remnants of the formerly strong and militant nation, fighting with Rome and
sometimes even winning, having their own culture (I remember once reading a long
treatise on Armenian architecture and its influence on the building of the first Russian
churches) long ago lost their importance and were consigned to the fate of small nations
– provincials,and particularly among their impulsive and fanatical Turkish and Kurdish
hosts.
Life for our Armenians in their homeland was difficult. I will not even write about
their systematic persecution by the Kurds which was much more common and extreme
than I have ever seen described in any newspaper. They mostly lived in villages, with
small livelihoods, surrounded by steep mountains, small grain fields and vegetable
gardens, and leaving at the slightest possibility – either for a while or forever – for the
towns of southwestern Asia and southern Russia to become artisans or business men.
How well I remember those young people who had recently come, with their Turkish –
type clothing - jackets wide on top and very slim at the bottom, rough mountain shoes.
On Sundays they stood in our light-filled church, always in a tight group, on the same,
carefully chosen place in the farthest corner of the church and prayed intensely,
unmoving; only their lips whispered and occasionally their fingers moved the rosaries.
They were bakers or inn keepers; these two professions were particularly popular: they
did not require a knowledge of the Russian language, that is, the newcomer was hired
by a compatriot who had come some time ago, and thus was able to earn a living. Time
passed, and the Turkish clothing vanished, no more tight jackets, and in an European
suit a new member of the clan sat in the church, with lips no longer whispering so
silently and intensely - his future now depending on his luck and talents. From these
beginnings came the European Armenians.
My father came from such a sad
background. However, I remember one of my most vivid impressions from childhood
which influenced me for the rest of my life. There was space in our house for a bakery
and a tavern. These were always in the hands of Armenians or Turks, who had, in our
Simferopol as well as in most other Crimean cities, almost a monopoly for these
establishments. These enterpreneurs stayed with us for years, often passing on the
Page 4 business from one generation to the next. There were never any difficulties for us with
them, not for my grandfather, nor my father or myself while I was in charge of our
ancestral house; there occurred no arguments or problems. Once or twice a year, for
some special occasion, the current baker brought monumental cakes to the “aga”, as
Turks always called the owner of the property.
However, once the situation changed.
Ordinarily, the business was run by two or three persons, who worked together in such
a way that one travelled to the home country, often for a whole year, and after his
return, the other comrade would leave for the same period of time. They travelled
across the Black Sea on Turkish vessels, which every Crimean living near a port knows,
then came from southwestern Asia bringing wood and salt. And so, as probably a
hundred times previously (I was about ten years old) – a baker returning from his
vacation brought with him two large packages. When he unwrapped them carefully, it
appeared that one contained a small tree, about one meter long, with lemons, there
were 3-4 twigs, still half green; in the other package there also was a small tree – hung
with small but beautiful orange-colored either mandarins or oranges, I do not remember,
but it seems that at that time mandarins were not known to us. For me this was like a
fairy tale. Among the polished wood, the fruit shone, and was the hope of my life. I
decided then that whenever I would have a house and a garden, I would plant orange
and lemon trees. My mother and I would go into the small village where the little
saplings had been planted and watch their progress.
I do not remember the name of
the baker, but he provided me with one of the most beautiful memories of my childhood,
an ideal which I realized many years later, when in our garden we admired our first
mandarins, even if they were the last ones of my life.
At the very beginning of the 19th century, from the small village or place called
Gumysh-chan (Gumusane) situated south of Trapezund, a young man called Sarkis
Keshivian, probably walked rather than drove away. Perhaps he was more cultured than
the others who left, since he did not live in the village directly; I do not even know
whether he knew how to read and write Armenian. From the stories we heard we only
know that he went into the trade profession and worked in the Karasu Bazaar for a wellPage 5 situated merchant by the name of Nalbandian.
Evidently Sarkis proved to be an
intelligent and decent person, and when the Nalbandians decided to open a branch for
their son in Simferopol, they made Sarkis something like a partner of the firm and sent
him to Simferopol together with the son. In those times the trust for a firm was so
important, and Nalbandian, enjoying so much respect and trust, could find no better way
to recompense the new partner of the firm than to allow him to carry the name of the
entrepreneur. At that time formalities probably did not play a large role, but however that
was the case, the name Keshivian disappeared, and in Simferopol there appeared Sarik
Nalbandian.
I am not cognizant of his further life and situations, but he evidently
prospered and married, was widowed and married once again, an orphaned and pretty
girl from Karasubazar – Sofia Ivanovna Jazydzhi. He began contracting and building,
which at that time was well-paid, because contracts were made for large sums of
money.
I once incidentally was obliged to look into Grandfather’s affairs.
When I
served in the Department of Commerce, I was asked to look into some archives of the
1850’s in the Tavrichisky region. To my great surprise I found, in the newspaper
“Prikaz”: an order for the “delivery of wood for the hospital by the businessman from
Simferopol, S.I. Nalbandov “ ..in the amount of tens of thousands. And the thousands
of those days were different from our thousands, and material goods cost much more
than now. Therefore, in the hands of our resourceful grandfather the rubles which he
earned turned into houses and estates and soon he became a rich man. At that time
the Nalbandov family lived in a house bought from some Greeks, on the second floor,
and a second attached apartment through whose entry one could only walk bent over,
and where there was room also for merchandise. The house stood on the corner of
Sevastopol and Fontanka Street across from a small square on which was a “Fountain”
-not-badly built with an urn on top and four masks, from each of which gaily and strongly
water ran into four granite bowls.
Daily, Turks and people who then were called
Dangalaki – came and scooped water and distributed it throughout the town. This was
the water supply for the town. From this house in Simferopol streets called “Armenian
Row” started out, with many stores, whose owners not that long ago also had been
Armenians. Across the street was a bazaar, with metal wares, a butcher, and so on, but
Page 6 no industrial items. These rows of stores were the length of the Sevastopol, Fontanka,
Salter and Kantarsky Streets. There also were storage places on the Kantarsky Street,
where the farmers brought wood, hay, fruits, vegetables, milk products, also horses,
cows and calves; it was said that this quarter made up almost all of the economy of the
rather small, southern town which Simferopol was at that time. In this manner, the
“Armenian Row” picked a good spot and caught the people coming from the
surrounding villages; from the bazaar, where they sold their various products, they
directly came to the stores and thus provided trade for the merchants. Grandfather
himself did not have any stores, but had two large properties on Sevastopol Street
between Kantarsky and Fontanka Streets and a third one – by then almost already a
whole estate – along one side of the Armenian Quarter.
Our old house on the Sev. and Font. Streets, being two and a half stories high,
stuck out among the low, one-story stores, and during Grandfather’s time probably was
very impressive due to its height, and its two arches; between the arches was the entry
into the house. Inside it was very modest; after his marriage, my father remodeled it
inside, but the age of the house still was very visible and we were surprised more than
once that our grandfather could live on such a small space with the rather large family,
and not only live, but to continuously host many guests, who, according to my father,
often stayed overnight, because to travel in the evening through the dirty and dark
streets was most unpleasant. Grandfather’s family fully kept the customs of the Eastern
world – there were no beds, but couches with drawers, and cushions lining the walls. In
the drawers bed linens and carpets were kept during the day. In the evenings, the
linens were taken out, the pillows put on the couches, carpets spread on the floor, and
thus very comfortable and spacious bedrooms were created.
Grandfather’s wealth
grew, as did his family, and soon the old, happy house became too tight. He decided to
build a new one. Whether he was by nature a grandly living person, or whether it was
good for his business dealings, or whether he was moved by his pride which is inherent
in a person who has moved to a position of “Premier Businessman” in the Armenian
society not only in Simferopol but probably in all of the Crimea, one of course cannot
Page 7 say, but the house he built was first-class.
The land for building which he chose
amounted to a whole desjatin (2.7 acres). In line with the public square, he put an
unbroken arcade of typical Tatar stores which, as we know, are attached to each other
and do not need any exits in the back, no additional rooms, and are a very efficient way
for shielding the owner’s lot. The monumental line ended with a very well-proportioned
and, for that time, very beautiful gate. Through this gate you entered a huge courtyard,
with very beautiful vases and mulberry trees, and having traversed the tree-lined road,
came to two stone stairways, through another courtyard, to the huge one-story house
situated on a tall foundation.
A gallery of tall glass windows stretched along the whole house, and two large pools
were in a mezzanine in the middle of the house. The house was well-proportioned, and
the hundreds of glasses of the high windows of the gallery quietly and gaily welcomed
you. I saw the house only after it had already been divided into two apartments, but I
can easily imagine how nice it was, that house of a rich gentleman. All was built by a
good architect who did not need to worry about money or economizing space. The
glass gallery was very wide and light flooded it with such free waves that they were
quite sufficient to light the rooms which stretched along the whole gallery, especially
since the windows were very large and had only a few muntins. From the corridor you
entered to the right and to the left through large doors into family rooms. At the end of
the corridor was a large hall, divided by an arch into two parts. I never saw the hall
when it was still one whole hall, but each of its half far exceeded the dimensions
common at that time. The high ceilings were lightly decorated, and the three huge
windows in each half faced the garden. These three windows left in me an indelible
impression.
In my life I have built many things, and I love to build.
But I never
succeeded in building with, what one may call a full hand – times have changed, life
dictated the laws of economy. With its thick and high walls, so well proportioned, with its
myriad of windows, this house has remained for me the ideal, unattainable building.
Underneath the row of windows there were doors, all decorated, very tall, as was then
customary, with one window, and copper handles that were placed so high that I, as a
Page 8 small boy, could not reach them. The windows of the hall opened onto the garden.
When I saw all this, the splendor of the Nalbandovs had ended already a long time ago.
Of the old grandfather’s furniture, simple and bourgeois, only the desk remained. But
when the sun shone through the open windows, it seemed to me that everything within
the hall was alive with the old life, and looked at us with pity and contempt.
When the new house was finished Grandfather’s family moved in, I unfortunately do
not know when. My father had difficult memories connected with that house, he disliked
speaking about them. Slowly it became clear that the old happiness did not move to the
new house with the family. For a long time everything remained the same. An estate
was bought, - Aratuk – not very large but with woods, which was especially valuable in
the Crimea. Only the wooden Tatar hut of the former owner existed on the land. The
estate was 10-15 versts (6-8 miles) from Simferopol on the Alusjatinsky Road and
served as a fitting vacation domicile for the family for a rather long time. Life in the new
house became more opulent. In the right half of the yard was a shed for carriages,
stables, the kitchen – we were still able to see all of this, even though everything had
been changed – the servants’ quarters had become tiny apartments, the stables turned
into store rooms. One had adjusted to the requirements of the new times. Where once
many cooks worked in the kitchen and the servants brought the food to the dining room,
it had seemed natural to remove the kitchen from the main living area to the second part
of the house, connected through a short hall way. But when the lady of the house
herself had to go to the same kitchen ten times a day, and cold breezes flew through
the hall, and she was constantly sick, she did not find enough words directed to the
architect, about how “stupidly” the house was built.
Guests came more and more
frequently, lunches and dinners were more numerous. The children grew older. There
were six of them: three sons and three daughters. The oldest, the twins Ivan and Nikita
were in highschool, but showed no special success, even though they were in a private
school. Then came a daughter, Maria, undoubtedly the most cultured and talented of
the daughters, she played the forte piano exceedingly well. Next came the son Sergei
and the daughters Anna and Anastasia.
Page 9 The generous life and duties of Sergei Ivanovich continued, but some misfortunes
appeared. Whether Grandfather himself was not on top of the situation – after all, this
was a man who could barely sign his name in Russian – or whether he relied too much
on the luck which had held out for so long – or perhaps circumstances had changed –
but on the bright horizon clouds appeared. Thus, during the Sevastopol War (1855) he
was to make a tremendous and crucial delivery of wood to the troops. For this delivery
were hired a whole string of mountain Tatars who cut the wood and brought it to the
front themselves. And one of the groups of Tatars unexpectedly came under fire and
abandoned the wood and fled. A whole affair developed and cost a lot of money to
settle. After the end of the war there was a large accounting concerning the wood
which had already been paid for, and a trusted agent of Grandfather furtively slipped
him a document for signing, in which he admitted that he took back forty thousand cubic
meters of wood instead of four thousand – the agent read a figure with one zero less to
Grandfather, etc. Grandfather’s mind was busy with his previous success and his
exalted standing in town and undoubtedly about being considered the primary face in
the Armenian community. Sergei Ivanovich decided to crown his pursuits by building a
special church for the Armenian Catholics. At that time there existed in Simferopol only
one church, called the “Polish” Roman Catholic church, a small, insignificant building,
whose appointed priests were always Polish, sometimes German. The service was
held in Latin, because during the unification of the Armenian and Catholic churches, a
concession was made to the effect that old traditions, such as keeping the national
language and generally the Eastern manner of Armenian-Catholic worship, would
remain. In Katasub there was already a special Armenian Catholic church, and for the
governing town it was of course “unseemly” not to have one also, especially since
during those times the Simferopol-Armenian society grew freely and unhindered at the
expense of the newcomers from Central Asia.
Undoubtedly all this influenced the
ambitious Grandfather, but considerations of a more personal nature were not foreign to
him. He had been a businessman already for a long time, and probably (I do not know
this) wore the uniform with an attached golden collar, and a sword, which at that time
Page 10 were given to people who were not officials, but who sat in positions of trustees of some
school or hospital; anybody in Russia could be a businessman, as long as he paid his
guild and carried a merchant’s certificate, but in spite of this, neither he nor his son had
a certain “standing” and had to consider themselves as belonging to a lower class of
society, and Grandfather could not understand this. No matter how high he stood in
Simferopol, of course he definitely had no hope at all to be admitted to the gentry, even
though one could sometimes obtain this certain class in Russia at that time through
“length of service”.
But there was one opportunity for Grandfather and his family to
advance into a better standing, one pleasing to the Almighty, not annoying any local
people, not causing envy, and falling into the category of special philanthropy and
enlightenment, without losing any self respect. This is what Grandfather was aiming for
when thinking about building a church. Be that as it may, Grandfather began his new
project with his customary zeal and large scale.
He bought (and perhaps already
previously owned) a huge lot, which may have been one of the best in Simferopol. In
the center of town, of the then wide Dvoransky Street, next to the grandiose yard of
General Vzmetnev (and which later would belong to F.N. Schneider). On the huge
property there was also a building with an apartment for the priest, housing for the
caretaker, and a small school, and in the back a large apricot garden. All this was to be
donated to the Simferopol Armenian Catholics, for their use in perpetuity. According to
Father, a very beautiful plan was drawn up and sent to the administration in St.
Petersburg. It was returned from there “corrected.” Evidently the façade was found not
fitting, and was drastically simplified. The church retained its simple and pleasing form,
the façade with its tall portal and two lateral doors, the entry was to be inlaid with
wonderful stones. Above the lectern, hanging from the high and light ceiling were bells,
and a countenance of Our Savior and on a piece of cloth that of Saint Veronica. There
was no fence in front of the church and along the wide and half-round driveway
carriages could arrive for festive occasions comfortably and directly to the entrance.
Undoubtedly, the idea of building the church arose while Grandfather’s affairs
progressed so splendidly, so that such a huge expense of building the church did not
Page 11 frighten him. But while the whole matter was being formalized, much time passed, and
when it came to act on the idea, Grandfather’s heart was probably heavy. But it was too
late to step away. Actually, affairs did not go as well as they once did, life necessitated
more expenditures, a number of law-suits in the courts – the courts of those times
demanded large sums to gain the favor of the judges – everything grew bigger, the two
older sons turned out to be unsuccessful while working for their father, without initiative
and active assistance in the business; one had to think of dowries for the two growing
and pretty daughters ........but. However, there already were signed commitments in
the hands of the authorities and the local government and the very thought that he could
get into such a humiliating situation, not even speaking of the fact that such a refusal
would be a mortal blow for his business, - at that time there was as yet no “credit” – all
that weighed heavily on Grandfather. My father pictured him to me as a deeply realistic
person - how else could he have come so far in life? – I can only add that building the
church became dear and close to his heart. It seems to me that the chromosome
(Andrjuscha will forgive this expression because it is not at all scientific) concerning the
realization that the boundary of our personal interest must cede before that of society,
which I am convinced always existed in all members of our family, we inherited it from
our Nalbandov grandfather. If he would not have had a personal interest in the building
of the church, he would not have worked so hard on its completion almost to the time of
his death. Father more than once told me: “Father never walked through the house
without looking what he could take to the church.
The best carpets, the best
candlesticks – he brought everything there.” Would he have done this if, in building the
church he would not have found personal satisfaction, or was this strictly a business
matter?
However this was, the building began, and in 1864 the church was
consecrated. The consecration was to occur with opulent festivities, the arrival of the
bishop was awaited. Later I saw in the possession of I.S.N.’s family a golden snuff box
inlaid with an small exquisite clock, which I admired, meant as a present for the bishop.
But the bishop did not come – I do not know why. This occurred after the lifetime of
Sofia Ivanovna, and probably was the last happy occasion for Sergei Ivanovich. His
businesses became more convoluted, as he himself realized. He fell into more debts in
Page 12 order to finish building the church, and during that time Grandmother suddenly died.
Father, who loved his mother and was in the last year of highschool, became gravely ill,
probably with typhus. When the danger had passed, his and Sergei Ivanovich’s name
day was approaching, and Grandmother, happily, evidently completely healthy,
immersed herself completely in the preparation for this important festival, because at
the celebration of two name days there must customarily be many guests, and for all of
them pirogues and sweets must be prepared. Father was still in bed and therefore did
not know the details of his mother’s death, and it was kept from him as long as it was
possible. Everything happened so quickly that the pirogues, which had already been
prepared, became funereal ones.
The death of his wife finished the old man. He went into a perpetual depression,
almost completely stopped taking care of his businesses, locked himself into his study
and did not want to see anyone, not even the servants. He only made an exception for
his youngest daughter, his favorite. Father told us: ”we would accompany her to the
door of his study, knock on the door and leave. Father would let her in, kiss and caress
her and cry. He would cry and say: “I ruined the children, I ruined them.” Then he
would let the girl out and lock himself in again.” He did not outlive his wife for long and
died in the same year; 1864. Both were buried in the garden of the church. The
tombstone on the graves was brought in from Italy, and was considered smart and
beautiful in Simferopol at that time. All was done as was customary: eternal flames, a
small dome, and bas reliefs of Grandfather and Grandmother (I therefore had the same
decorations in my personal library). Curiously enough, these were their only likenesses.
Sofia Ivanovna, according to several people, was a pretty and somewhat shapely
woman.
She probably brought with her the weakness of the heart which later on
appeared in many of her descendants. Conversely, Grandfather was of rather short
height, a dry little old man with a rather sharp profile, well portrayed in the bas relief,
and quite bald. On the relief one could well see the embroidered collar of the uniform
dress coat in which Grandfather was buried. It is worthwhile to pause for a while at this
embroidered collar and to discuss it. It would be insufficient to see it only as an empty
Page 13 part of a uniform which had been bought for money, as a banality of the one who wore
the uniform at that time. One must not forget that Grandfather came to Russia as an
illiterate stranger from a strange people – I, born, raised and studying in Russia – can
imagine the deadly Armenian accent with which he spoke Russian. And none of this,
even his Catholic belief, which was clearly expressed with the building of the church,
prevented him from obtaining that little bridge, which enabled him and his descendants
to enter a new country, to become its citizens with all its rights, as much as one can
speak of equal rights in this country at that time at all. How could one oppose that goldembroidered collar? One can be proud of his tolerance of the dark days of so long ago.
In 1914, when the jubilee of the half-century of our church was celebrated, the
graves of our oldsters already began to be in the way of the enterprising leaders of the
Armenian
mercantile community who wanted to utilize the long neglected apricot
garden. And truly they were in the way when next to them heavily laden vehicles
constantly drove by to get to the store rooms. And thus, following the recipe of “utile
dulci misere” it was decided to celebrate the jubilee of the church by moving the crypt
into the church. When the crypt was opened, they saw that the graves were halfcrumbled, but shreds of glossy upholstery were still left
Due to the destruction of the
graves some bones had moved closer together, but on the bones of Grandmother were
still scraps of silky material, and near her skull was some hair of beautiful dark chestnut
color. And next to Grandfather’s skull there still lay the embroidered collar, but the shine
of the gold threads was gone. In this there definitely was a symbolism for the silently
observing grandson seeing the bones of his grandfather: even though the glitter of the
collar had faded away, he understood perfectly what important role this collar had
played in the history of our family – it led us into being free Russian citizens.
Officially it was decided by the highest magistrates to present to Grandfather still
during his lifetime and preserved in a golden frame by his oldest son, Ivan Serg.. a
framed certificate in which it is noted that the merchant from Simferopol Sarik Ivanov
Nalbandov together with his sons Ovanes, Mirtich, and Sergei and his daughters
Page 14 rendered outstanding civil services and accomplishments. Again two interesting details:
I do not know whether Grandfather himself insisted, or whether administrators decided
this themselves, but Grandfather was called Nalbandov, and not Nalbandian.
My
goodness, how many times later in the national-Armenian society people smiled at the
“of ,” how insistently the Nersesov family – the sister of my father – the most “Armenian”
of the whole clan – stressed that they were Nersesian, not Nersesov. But it seems to
me that Grandfather, whether he had done this through conviction or simple
opportunism, acted correctly. It would have been odd to move permanently to a strange
land, become its citizen and keep a name that estranged you from your new country.
But, someone could say to me, would it then not be right to translate the name
Nalbandov (nalbandt is “blacksmith” in Turkish)? However, that is not convincing, for
this may be the difference between the former versus the present nationality.
Grandfather moved to Russia forever. Here he found a second homeland, where he
founded his business and his family. He sincerely wanted to mingle the fate of this
family with that of the Russian nation and became a Russian citizen. But not for one
minute did he abandon his roots, nor his religious belief; he did not hide them nor was
he ashamed of them. Calling himself Kuznetsov would have meant, I believe, to say:
please forget that I was once an Armenian, and add me to the list of millions of original
Kuznetsovs. By staying with Nalbandov (or Nalbandian) he declared that he and his
descendants wanted to swim in the Russian ocean and mingle with other Russians.
Grandfather chose (if indeed he had a choice) the middle way and acted correctly, and
honestly and presented his offspring with a great service. To this day, none of his
offspring moved away from his Armenian blood, with all its good and bad qualities, nor
from our religion; his descendants know no home except Russia.
This concerns
especially our family and is truly expressed by the fact that in a family with three
brothers with Armenian names, the oldest son is called Sergei, not Sarkis.
I know little about the character of Grandfather and Grandmother.
Grandfather
evidently had a temper and was a harsh person. In his presence his sons did not dare
to smoke, had to stand up when he entered the room, but perhaps this was only
Page 15 customary in those times? He could also be tender: my father always told how tenderly
he loved his youngest daughter – she was always called Nastenka. Before the end of
his life our energetic grandfather somehow suddenly fell apart under the blows of fate
and became melancholic and inactive. But fate kindly cut short his life with a heart
attack and saved him from the unescapable indignities of total disintegration. My father
always spoke with special love of his mother. Not only was she beautiful, but very kind
and tender, a perfect hostess.
Father told that his sister Nastenka very much
resembled her mother. I knew Aunt Nasta (Mursaev).
She truly was a generous,
tender and quiet person. She did not speak much, but was graced with such a kind
smile that it seemed that she wanted to do something nice for you, but just did not know
how and did not dare. From Grandmother she evidently inherited the somewhat dark
beauty of the tender face on a large frame, like my sister Sofia and our Katja. During
our childhood Father often told us when we lolled in bed in the morning: “my mother
always said: only dogs lie there with eyes open; when a person has woken up, he must
get up.” A characteristic saying by a great representative of her nation against laziness!
2. The Nalbandov Family
After Grandfather’s death his family remained in a terrible situation. Everyday life
continued as before. The grandiose house, carriage and horses, the estate, guests and
the cook – everything existed as before, but it was clear that changes had to be made
and the situation at home could not continue. Something had to be decided. But how?
It was after all a prominent family in the small town, especially among the Armenian
society, having just shown its might by building a beautiful church, and counting among
the leading land owners and merchants. However, there were mortgages and loans,
and not much personal money, so that sometimes, Father said, one had to look where
to get a ruble to give the cook who went to the market to buy provisions.
And
meanwhile the sisters had grown up, they had to be married off and needed dowries,
and there was the risk of any curtailment in everyday life being noted publicly – and
according to “Armenian pride” not desirable either for the sister brides and also for the
Page 16 brothers; expenses could not be reduced even for the Sunday meal: on Sundays the
priest of the new church lunched with his patron, as the builder of the church was called,
and the title was inherited by his family. One had to suffer on and tighten one’s belt in
private. But who should do the tightening? I already wrote that the two older sons –
twins – Ivan and Nikita - were not very able people. Grandfather sent all three sons to
high school but perhaps noting that life in the family would not encourage them to study,
he placed all three into a private boarding school which had opened in Simferopol and
was run by high school teachers Karl Vasiljevich Trinkler and Aleksander
Konstantinovich Chamarito (I did not know the first one, and therefore forgot his last
name, but later on the other one was also my teacher). Undoubtedly the boarding
school was a good one – so said my father – and the children of the best families in
town were sent there. My father’s fellow student was Al. Christ. Stewen, the son of the
Academician Stewen, who was in charge of the Nikitkin Garden. But neither the high
school nor the boarding school helped the twins: neither one went farther than the
second grade high school and from their German language studies Ivan retained only
one sentence: eine kleine Biene flog (a little bee flew) with which he amused us during
merry times. The sad thing was that in business matters the twins did not know much
more than the bee and turned out to be totally useless for any practical endeavor. They
were two very nice, not malicious, well-meaning and totally decent people, but
throughout their whole lives they never did anything and achieved nothing. How they
would have lived if their father had not left them property which fed them and their
families – I definitely do not understand. They did not change anything in their inherited
houses – except that Ivan added three rooms in the corner of the yard of his house –
but never used them.
Overall this was an ideal example for the opponents and
defenders of the law of inheritance: the defenders would be in ecstasy about how the
efforts of one generation would be sufficient for the lives of descendants, and opponents
would talk about how a parasite can live a useless life through the inheritance from a
father. But once a year the twins played their role very well. During the Corpus Christie
celebration, when the priest carries in a festive procession and with measured steps the
star with the body of Christ around the church, custom demands that he be supported
Page 17 under the arms by two parishioners. It was essential that this role always fell to the
oldest patrons – the twins. One should have seen the proud consciousness of being of
the Nalbandov family with which the two old men, dressed identically and resembling
each other totally, stepped forward.
These few moments probably gave them the
feeling of belonging to a society which, for some reason, they never were able to enter
and which, by virtue of their name, was due them. The old men with their bald heads,
kind faces and grey whiskers, seemed to stand taller and enhanced the beauty of the
procession precisely because of their sameness: on both sides of the golden
implements of the church stood two totally identical ornaments, and above curled the
smoke of the censers. And when the procession slowly wended its way around the
church and stopped at various altars built for this occasion, it passed the gravestone of
Grandfather, it is said that his profile miraculously followed them. It seemed that he
could peacefully sleep in his grave and that his descendants had completed his work.
The Armenian society had its church and his children did not perish, as he had feared
during the last years of his life. They all climbed out of the depth into which they had
fallen and upon the foundation which they had been given, built their own families, all
enjoyed success and gave him grandchildren, none of whom would have to be
ashamed to face his proud grandfather. The graves were put in the earth of the church
underneath the benches which were dedicated to the Nalbandovs, and the bas reliefs
and epitaphs which formerly had been on the tombstone were put in the wall. To
achieve this, we simply cut the whole top of the tombstones into halves and placed
them next to each other, and after 50 years of looking outward, they now faced each
other.
It seems that luck had smiled on us once more and now they would rest
peacefully in the church which they had built. But less than 15 years later, the church
itself was destroyed by the new forces, and now there is nothing but an abandoned lot.
Perhaps their remains are still underground, but their last images undoubtedly were
thrown out together with the pile of stones, as was our completely destroyed family. I
received the news of the destruction of our church from Venice, from Father Iosif
Markov, who had been living in the monastery on the island of St. Lazar Mechitaristov
for many years already. One would assume that there one would know the truth. But
Page 18 now Katja met, in New York on October 5, 1950, an Armenian priest who previously had
been in Moscow and in Siberia and met – where? – a Nalbandov, probably Gleb. Later
he lived in Simferopol for seven years and then left from there with the Germans in
1943. He said that the “Nalbandian Church” was not destroyed, that at first it served as
a club, then as apartments, and then again as a church. He spoke Russian well, and
there could not have been a misunderstanding. I hope to God! But this probably is not
true. He may have confused the Armenian-Catholic church with the ArmenianGregorian one. I asked Vlad. Aleks. Schlee, and he confirmed that the church was
demolished down to the foundation during the difficult years (letter of June 3, 1951).
And so, neither Ivan nor Nikita could take upon themselves the tangled affairs of
their father, and, desired or not, this role fell onto the shoulders of the youngest son,
Sergei. At that time he was 19 years old and just finishing high school and hoping for
further studies.
But time did not stand still, something had to be done right now,
immediately, he left school - he did not graduate even though he studied well. As he
told me, his father did not divulge much about his businesses to his sons, therefore he
had no responsibilities and even did not live at home during all those years and thus
was completely lost when these new tasks fell onto his head. Creditors demanded
money, the various law-suits were already over the time limit; he did not know the
history of all the affairs and did not have anyone to ask; Grandfather did not keep notes
and had no trustworthy assistants. In addition, all had to be done so as not to harm the
reputation of the firm, not to show the insufficiency of funds, and to do everything
circumspectly. One more law-suit was added to all the others concerning the time when
the new church and the land on which it stood were handed over to the Armenian
society; now they demanded a sum of money which would ensure the upkeep of the
church. I do not know whether Grandfather was able to obtain the permit to build the
church by promising its upkeep, or whether it was only a verbal agreement or a new
idea of the Armenians, but it was shameful to demand this when the family was so
totally bereft, and this forever damaged Father’s relationship with the Armenian society,
and he could never forget and forgive this. Altogether, the travails during this time
Page 19 deeply influenced Father’s character and made him reserved and distrustful of people.
But new worries arose.
Time passed, the younger sisters had to be married off.
Gradually the law-suits were resolved, some were lost some were won, the estate went
away, also some more real estate, and it became clear that even though heavily
mortgaged, three of Nalbandov’s houses could be saved: the new house on the
Bazarsky lot, the house on the corner of Kantarsky and Sevastopol Street and (our
future house) on the corner of Sevastopol and Fontanka Street. Next to each house
was a hostel. In this way each son could inherit a house, but for the daughters there
remained nothing. Meanwhile the two older sisters had already married. The money
necessary for existence was somehow found through new borrowing, there remained
only the real estate.
They thought for a long time, and finally decided to divide the
estate into three equal parts, and also cut out three pieces from the facades of the row
of Sevastopol street houses, enough to build three stores in the Armenian section.
Nersesov located in the house on the corner of Kantarsky Street, Uzunov – in our
house. When all this was decided, the brothers threw the dice and Ivan got the house
on the square, Nikita the one on Kantarsky, and Father the one on Sevast. Street. It
must be said that there were no particular quarrels or misunderstandings, but I know
that the families all remained displeased with what they received from the inheritance,
and their relationship, especially with my father, remained rather cool throughout their
lives, and visits between brothers and sisters were rather infrequent. By the way, there
were also other reasons for this, not only material ones.
Thus the knot which had kept the families in the grand house of their father finally
was unraveled. The sisters had already previously left to be with their husbands, the
brothers could move into their own houses, and each family began its own separate life.
For all this, many years had been lost. During that time, my father also had succeeded
in getting married, and my mother also lived in the grand house for a time, and in the
summers in Aratuk. “To live in their house,” my mother complained later, “was not
infrequently boring. The rooms were huge, half empty, only long, huge Turkish couches
stood against the walls. One was not allowed to make noise, to sing, the old ladies (two
Page 20 old aunts still lived in the house) began to grumble and get angry. For holidays the
priest always came for dinner. One ate, sat in the corners of the couches and dozed
off. I went to my mother and left them to keep sitting there.” Carriages and guests,
receptions and holidays – everything has stopped long ago. The large house became
too large, the younger generation fell silent, and it was not possible to create a new life
there. Finally all the “outsiders” left, and a new owner moved in.
Ivan Sergeevich Nalbandov was born probably in 1838, and died in 1892, was
married to Christina Stepanovna Chalubdzid, from nearby Evpatoria. They had three
children.
The son, Stepan, was born around 1872, studied at the Simferopol
highschool, left, I think, in the third grade of high school, later studied in the Moscow
Agricultural School, died on January 28, 1929. He was married to Luisa Franzovna
Lerich (she died on February 20, 1939).
They had two daughters: Henrietta and
Valeria, both, (the second one with a husband and possibly children) now moved to
Germany. The son Michael was born in 1874, completed the Simferopol high school
and Moscow University, jurisprudence. Served in the Simferopol District Court, then
became a public notary in Melitopol. Died (heart) in 1911-12. The daughter, Anna,
markedly younger, was born in 1880, died in 1936 – was married to a member of the
Simferopol District Court, Ledashnev. They did not have children. Ivan Sergeevich was
given his father’s grand house. This was the right thing, because he was the eldest in a
row. But debts for the house rose, which, I think, was somewhat influenced by the
inheritance of his wife, since she came from a prosperous family; the income received
from the adjacent houses, but totally separated from it, consisting of an inn and the rent
from the former servants’ house, seemed sufficient so that the family could live quite
comfortably. But the former splendor of the house died out completely in the hands of
the uncle. It was developed into two apartments, the family lived in one, the other one
was rented out. They lived a boring but economical life; I remember with pleasure the
large hall which they did not enter for weeks at a time; in the winter it was not heated.
Perhaps this was necessary – I do not know. I only know that I particularly loved
everything in that house – the courtyard with its huge mulberry trees and the garden,
Page 21 and the huge rooms and the wide hallway – and I always gladly stayed with my uncle
when my parents remained on the estate during the spring and summer. And I could
not shake free from a certain sadness because the house did no longer correspond to
the life which had been. Only once a year the house shone again. On the second day
of Christmas the Armenian church celebrated the name day of St. Stepan. And on that
day the distracted uncle remembered that he was the eldest of the line and as such had
to mark the name day of his first born and future replacement. At around seven o’clock
in the evening we were carefully wrapped up, placed into the carriage, and as he drove
directly across the square, Father never forgot to say: “Yawash, chardash -slowly,
brother” (almost all the coachmen were Tatars, at that time), because the road truly had
so many potholes that the carriage easily could have overturned. The gates of the old
house were opened wide, and the hall with all its windows glistened far into the
courtyard. The house was full again. All the relatives came together with their children,
who were immediately taken to one of the side rooms, but the adults went through the
hall into the large and long dining room where they were welcomed with large quantities
of various pies. At home we also lived very simply and particularly in the company of
relatives, and I involuntarily shrank back when I happened to be in the hall, which was
filled with people not known to me – dark and loud who represented Armenian society,
who had already happily partaken of glasses –mainly vodka – which were lined up at
one end of the table, and in the Eastern tradition, with marmalades and other sweets.
Card tables had already been set up – they mainly played a game of chance called
Stukalka. Men as well as women played, and among them I – and certainly others also
– was particularly impressed by the oldest sister of my father, Maria Sergeevna
Nersesova. She was pretty, had a somehow especially white or pale face and from
gold-rimmed glasses shone two intelligent and somewhat direct-focusing eyes. With
her cultured bearing, she was way above the people surrounding her, and felt again in
the old world of her father during his lifetime, and especially after her unfortunate and
poor family life – and this animated her and all those around her. Everyone around her
card table laughed and talked, the jokes which I did not understand did not stop – they
mostly spoke Armenian – and she seemed to me the kindest and most pleasant person
Page 22 of all those present. Perhaps also because she was the most “European” among the
dark-complexioned crowd whose language I did not understand. All together, during
those evenings one could feel how our family was removed from Armenianism. As I
already have written, an old Babushka lived in the house of Ivan Sergeevich, and during
those evenings a far-removed relative was also present, called Evniza (Evgenia)
Jazvedji.
All children had to approach these harmless oldsters and kiss their hands
and then they very tenderly kissed us and said tender words to us in Armenian –neither
one spoke Russian. Basically we could not have anything against this since in our
house we only occasionally kissed our mother’s hands, but from the hands of the old
ladies arose a spicy smell, and I often dodged this mandatory duty. But once somehow
one of the old ladies was astounded about the number of the children who approached
her and said: “there are so many of you that you washed my hands.” This was so
unappetizing to me that I simply could not force myself and systematically began to
oppose this old Armenian customary etiquette.
While the adults played cards and
talked, the children were left to themselves, and sat in the rear rooms and played
school, lotto, domino and cards. We played for nuts and also money. But the money
was really pieces of paper – wrappings of various candies and caramels. Perhaps it
showed a business acumen, but the wrappings had different values, which had been
earnestly decided. I remember a totally white one with the gold lettering “Pomadka”
(fruit candy) which became popular but was still rather expensive, while “Statublevka”
was rather boring. For Pomadka one got twenty-five rubles, bluish-violet papers of my
favorite sour barberry caramels. In Armenian household candies were presented in a
strange fashion: on silver platters (on napkins) they were mixed together with nuts, figs,
dates, gingerbreads and various cookies. The platters stood on a table, and the guests
approached and took what tasted best to them. The platters were brought to the card
players and older guests. The lady of the house would inspect the offerings and would
add to the platters whatever found the most favor. The same platters were brought to
the children’s room, and there began the battle for the most valuable wrappers. When
the supply became depleted, we one by one sneaked out of the room and into the hall
in order to either grab or else receive from a kind guest a sweet or find a high-value
Page 23 wrapper. It was with that money that we played cards or lotto and at the end of the
evening – victorious or defeated - reread our sticky wrappers and in view of hygienic
necessity, removed them from our dirty hands. Not long before 12 o’clock there was
some movement in the hall – the priest was invited to have dinner, because he could
not eat after 12 o’clock if he wanted to serve mass the next day. He was escorted to
the dining room, but a part of the other guests continued playing. Finally they were
called to dinner, the whole long dining room was filled with people, and for us children
there was usually not enough space, and we ate in the children’s room, but often many
of us were already peacefully sleeping with our heads deep in the cushions of the
couches or some clothing which had been thrown onto the corner of the couch. In the
dining room they ate and drank fully and long. Because that day economy did not
apply, there were many appetizers, and a huge name-day cake was mandatory, a cake
whose layers and delicate thinnes Armenian hostesses showed off before one another.
But finally dinner came to a close, a servant was sent to collect the coachmen and the
sleepy children were taken home. The holiday was ended and the house became silent
again for another whole year. The end of grandfather’s structure was sad. Perhaps it is
strange to speak, particularly now at the end of a war in which so many undoubtedly
more valuable historical buildings were destroyed, of that house, but it was our happy
house, and we ourselves destroyed it. After the death of Ivan Sergeevich the family
lived for some time in the same apartment, then moved to a second one, smaller, about
half the size, then scrambled into an annex and finally, when Stepa married and moved
into his wife’s small apartment, they moved out of the house completely. It would be
absurd to object to such behavior of the owner of the house, if his material situation
would have demanded that he rent out his larger apartment and move into the smaller
one. But Stepa kept getting richer. After the death of his brother he inherited also his
(brother’s) part of his father’s inheritance, and perhaps one thousand twenty which
Misha collected for his duties as notary. The war came, the oppression of the Germans
began, and our Stepa, probably with the advice of his brother-in-law Lerich, a very
astute person, literally bought for pennies, the equipment of a mill from some German
who was forced to sell his property, and built a mill in the courtyard of his inn. He
Page 24 worked it himself and, people said, earned enormous sums of money. But the devil of
greed pushed him on further, and he decided that the house brought him little income.
He decided to remodel it himself, and remodeled it in a way that my heart stopped when
I once stepped into the courtyard to look at this alteration. All the glass windows from
the gallery had been removed and the gallery turned into an overhang loaded with
sacks of mill material. The garden had been uprooted, the huge windows I loved so
much were broken down to the floor, and turned into huge doors hung with locks. One
of the doors was open. I went up a small wooden staircase and looked inside. Above
me was a piece of the painted ceiling of the hall, criss-crossed by wooden beams. In all
my life I have never again seen these walls, and am glad otherwise I probably would not
have controlled myself and had told him what I thought of him. And later I would have
regretted this. When the Bolsheviks came in 1920 he simply lay down in his bed and
stayed there for nine years until his death. Anna Lerich wrote to me with horror what his
wife and daughter lived through with him during those years. But normally he had been
a good and loving father and husband.
Nikita Sergeevich Nalbandov married a Karasubarskii lady, Anna Karpovna
Timendjeev. My mother told me that according to the customs of those days, when it
became known that the brother of Sergei wanted to get married before his older
brothers did, the family was quite perturbed. This did not comply with the customary
order, and the family began to search for brides for the older brothers, but still permitted
the engagement of Nikita before Sergei’s wedding. However that was, the wife of Nikita
was a good one: pretty, healthy, a good housekeeper. But, truthfully, my father chided
her for spending more than her husband owned, and she spent mostly on food, but
perhaps he was not entirely correct – they did have eight children. I do not know
exactly why, but though the house of N.S. was the most lucrative of all three houses,
this family always was needy and never had money to pay their debts on time. They
lived very modestly, never celebrated any holidays, and occupied four rooms, forming a
part of “the numbers” as we called the rooms for undemanding travelers who came to
the inn which was adjacent to the house and provided, together with the stores, a good
Page 25 income, considering those times.
There were many numbers, and according to
Southern custom, they were connected by a long corridor which was wooden and
attached to the outside wall of the house. The windows of the numbers faced the
corridor, and since N.S.’s apartment was at the end of the building and had the same
construction, we, the children, often ran around and played in that huge corridor and did
not look at the numbers! Perhaps this is the reason that N. S.’s children were the most
practical of all of us. N.S. just like I.S. basically did not do anything. I.S. was a member
of a club, but Nikita Sergeevich did not go anywhere besides his coffee house (the
house of each brother contained a coffee house), due to his character, lack of funds and
modest living. He was somewhat softer and more affectionate than his brother Ivan and
closer to us children.
As I have written before, the twins resembled each other
remarkably, both even had the same defect which resembled small bread crumbs in the
corner of their eyes, and in my early childhood I sincerely could not understand how
they both could have such unsightly crumbs in their eyes and not try to brush them
away. As the years passed, however, differences appeared. Ivan became richer and
straightened out while Nikita became more and more entangled, could no longer dress
identically with his brother, which they always had previously done, and somehow
hunched over more and more under the pressure of neediness. But he turned out to be
stronger and healthier than his brother and died much later –about 1906-07 – when
things had already improved a long time ago thanks to his oldest son. Anna K. outlived
him for many years and was still alive when we abandoned Russia. She was a good
mother and housekeeper, with all feminine good and not-so-good qualities. She worked
hard all her life, almost never had a servant; those responsibilities were carried out by a
Gypsy who looked wild, with a mass of black hair tied with ribbons, and a long pipe and
who caused me to involuntarily recoil when she came crawling out of the small attic
which served as a kitchen for poor Anna Karpovna. But she could cook good dishes.
Especially tasty were two typically Armenian sweets. One was called Kutabja. This
was a pastry prepared from flower and a large amount of sugar and roasted nuts. They
looked like two small cones, and when one of the kutabjas got into your mouth, it
crumbled at a slight pressure of the teeth. The other dish was usually prepared only for
Page 26 the New Year and was served with good wishes. It also was not complicated as far as
ingredients were concerned, but needed much work in order to succeed. There were
roasted nuts (as filberts were then called, that is, a garden Near-Asian nut as opposed
to a forest nut) in honey, mashed into a white almost-liquid sauce, unusually tasty. I
only know that the hostess and her daughters mashed the nuts with their hands on New
Year’s Day - there were so many of us now that it seemed an unnecessary treat. It also
had a special name but I have forgotten it.
The oldest son Karp perhaps was the most unusual person of us all. He was about
two years younger than my father. He was a funny, strong, mischievous boy, but smart
–however with his own type of intelligence. He often stayed with us in the village and
one incident happened there which we remembered for a long time.
My brother
Serjezha (Sergei) went into the steppe on horseback. There was no horse for Karpusha
but he begged permission from my mother to take one of the work horses and went off
to catch Serjezha. But as soon as he had passed the mountain, his horse somehow
threw him. Tatars who were near-by caught the horse and our Karpusha suddenly
returned home very quickly. He went straight away to my mother and said: “you know,
Aunt, I saw how the horse threw a Tatar boy in the steppe. The poor boy probably was
hurt very badly, and the horse ran away.” Mother drove with him to see the situation of
the poor “Tatar” boy, and how great was her surprise when the Tatars told her the true
story. Since then, when someone was suspected of not telling the whole truth, he was
asked: “listen, was that not a Tatar boy?” This combination of practicality and fantasy
stayed with our dear Karpusha for his whole life. Much in it could be criticized and
found wanting, but he always remained at heart a decent, good, life-affirming person
and the most beloved of the Nalbandovs. He did not take well to learning. I believe that
he finally absolved a term in public school – but even in this I am not certain, and when
he was 14-15 years old the question of what to do with him, arose. My father strongly
advised to put him into a railroad technician’s school in Sevastopol, but this suggestion
did not satisfy the brothers. Because Karpusha was a Nalbandov, and on top of this the
oldest son! How could one make him a craftsman? The children of the other brothers
Page 27 went to high school, and even though we are poor, we are not worse than, etc. etc.
Poor Father became silent, but the insult had already happened and was not forgotten
quickly.
Karpusha began to have private teachers in order to prepare him for
something, but in the end he was sent into a store for iron utensils – a merchant is after
all not a common worker – and to everyone’s surprise he was not sent to a factory,
which would have been more customary. This was not easy. Just at that time, the old
store of I.I. Bazov was transferred into the hands of the energic, young I.N. Lichvenikov,
and our poor Karpusha not only had to stand behind the counter, but unload iron bars
which lay under the open sky, very cold in the winter and very hot under the Crimean
sun, and during some free time he had to stand by the open doors of the store. In the
provinces it was still the time when the buyer valued respect, when he was impressed
with a bow of the merchant and an invitation to come into the store – and the owners
themselves were not embarrassed to stand by the entrance, and the same was
demanded from the employees. I myself used to walk past the store on the way to high
school, and each time when Lichvenikov saw me, he, I do not know why, would bow to
me with a smile and say : “my deference to the future Secretary”. (meaning “Secretary
of Commerce, or State, etc.) No doubt this was meant as a pleasantry directed to his
good client, my father, but I found it unpleasant and avoided going past that store. I
know from later stories from Karpusha that precisely that standing by the doors was
very insulting for a proud young man, and he rushed to hide in the store when from afar
he saw an aqaintance approaching, especially an Armenian. In this way several years
passed, but when the high school students and their peers left for the university,
Karpusha also fled to Moscow. There he was able to land in a large general store Mof
Lior and Meriliz, and after a short time he became unrecognizable. He worked in a
clean, warm space, began to dress well, lived with students from the Crimea, and
breathed the air of a large city. Now he had a future. When he now came home for a
vacation, he looked down at those same Armenians, was a gastronome, blinded his
provinvial relatives with his good clothes and gastronomic assurance and familiarity.
But this was when he “went out”. At home he, one might say, rested from his high
degree of culture, and more than once I saw him when in the morning, dressed only in
Page 28 trousers and slippers without socks, he held a lively conversation standing by the doors
of some Armenian-type store with some
friendly
colleague or doorman.
When I
embarrassed him about this, he smiled, gaily showed his teeth and said: “well, we are
all at home here.” His highest delight in Moscow was: to be a nobleman once a month.
He economized a whole month like a student, hungry, nourishing himself mostly with
tea and bread with sausage. But once a month he dressed carefully, took a good
carriage and with elan drove up to a good restaurant. Doormen hurried to his side, he
ordered the best dishes and wines, asked for fruit, did not ask the price, tipped
generously and left, accompanied by general bows, and then disappeared for a month.
He was so impressed by the titles and attentions given by coachmen and waiters to
well-dressed, rich clients : your highness, which was pronounced with a special effect,
that students began to call him “prince”, and when someone asked which Nalbandov,
they answered “ah, the prince.” All this was of course comical, but he did all this so
kindly and without rancor, that nobody even thought to judge him harshly. He became
very polished, but made no attempt to learn something or to read and during more
serious efforts of discussion only turned his head and said: “well, brother, this is a suite
by Grieg “ – for some reason this word “suite” and even by Grieg, seemed to him the
height of complexity and difficulty of a problem.
He was not only energetic but also
very handsome, a somewhat coarse handsomeness with gorgeous clear eyes inherited
from his mother. His looks helped him greatly to play the role of a prince, and in general
helped him during his life. This was his main calling card. When I left Moscow and later
went to Petersburg I only saw him occasionally in the Crimea when our vacations
coincided, and know little about his further experiences. I only know that he settled his
father’s affairs, began to renovate his house, started to build warehouses, the debts
decreased, helped his younger brothers to study at the university and altogether put his
family on its feet. He sent for his sister Tanja and married her to a good person, got
married himself, moved to Petersburg – I believe already during the war, in the year
1915 –or 1916. I had dinner with him in a resplendid apartment with very good furniture
and décor organized by his wife and a far cry from dear Simferopol and our Sevastopol
Street which we shared. At the end of the war Karpusha already owned a factory, with
Page 29 a paid-off mortgage, where his younger brother Nikolai worked; Nikolai was already a
technical engineer. The factory provided a very good income for the owners. But then
came the Bolshevik Revolution and having come to Paris in 1920 I found two families:
Karpusha’s and Samsonovs’s.
According to them, their circumstances were very
difficult, but both occupied wonderfully furnished apartments which cost a great deal of
money. After the Revolution they fled Petersburg across Finland, but brought with them
many things: sheets, clothing and evidently jewelry. Karpusha believed in his favorite
saying: “eat straw, but do not lose the ostentation,” held his head high, reconciled with
his new circumstances and sought to use his abilities. He received me with a relative’s
joy, let me live with them, he and his wife had an apartment with three rooms in Rain,
and I ate with them. His wife, Natalija Nikolaevna – I do not know her maiden name; I
know that she was an artist, was either a widow or divorced and a first-class cook – first
class does not even come close to her abilities – and fed us simply wonderfully. She
got up late, began to cook about half an hour before dinnertime, but dinner was always
ready on time, always tasty and varied.
But according to the custom in Paris,
everything was delivered to her already ready, but still one had to know how to cook like
Natalija Nikolaevna. She was a hefty lady, had beautiful clothes and knew how to wear
them and was a first-class housekeeper. Evidently there was enough money after all,
and soon Karpusha decided to open up a vodka factory together with someone called
Rotinov, also an Armenian but from the Caucasus, a relative of the famous petroleum
expert Mantasimov, who at that time had his own laboratory in the vodka company
Petrov, whose brother-in-law Samsonov was a part-owner.
The company was run
simply and well. They rented a house with the suitable accommodations in Sures,
brought in the necessary barrels and utensils, obtained alcohol and bottles after the
design by Viktor Nalbandov, and additional bottles fashioned after the bottles in Russia,
and began to prepare various vodkas and liquers. Karpusha and Rotinov did not do
anything except supervise. They invited me to be the bookkeeper, that is, the buying
and selling of alcohol, according to French law, was strictly to be accounted for, and the
brothers had just begun to study the French language (except for Viktor), and Viktor and
Nikolai did all the light work for the preparation of vodka, but for the heavier tasks and
Page 30 as a guard they hired a Russian soldier who was married to a French woman and had
stayed on after the war. Little by little the whole manufacture of the vodka and other
liquers fell into my hands - after all I had been a chemist a long time ago – and the
factory began to function.
Our bosses conducted the commercial aspects and
distribution of the vodka, which was the most difficult part of the enterprise.
They
worked energetically, but in my opinion, peculiarly. A bottle of vodka, ¾ of a liter, was
set to cost 25 francs. As much as I, acting as the bookkeeper tried to convince the
bosses, this price was not appropriate since for 20-25 francs at that time in Paris one
could buy one liter of real Benedictine, and after all the expenses were accounted for,
one bottle of vodka cost us 3.50-4 francs; they only laughed at me and assured me that
I did not have any understanding of business and that one must immediately earn well
or else all was for nothing. For several months our business did not do badly, but the
greatest demand came from the Russian public; to get the conservative French to buy
a new drink and even more so at those prices, was not successful. Our business
increased the stock in our warehouse more and more, and the bosses began to wonder;
at that time I received a letter from Munich telling me of the serious illnesses of Katja
and Andrjusha. I dropped everything and went to Munich. I never saw Karpusha again.
Judging from letters, the business grew worse and worse and soon came to a complete
halt. Some more time passed – and I received notice of Karpusha’s death. He had
some kind of new plans and went to Berlin, where he died totally unexpectedly even for
his family, of a heart attack. I told the biography of Karpusha in more detail than I did
for other relatives because he was one of the most talented Nalbandovs. He totally
repeated, though under completely different circumstances, the story of our grandfather.
Almost illiterate he began with the unpleasant role of a youth in a metal store, and if the
Revolution had not happened, would have ended his life as a successful rich man. I am
quite aware that people sometimes use methods which, to put it mildly, are not always
on the up and up, and that Karpusha was not unfamiliar with them, but not everyone
manages to go through life totally clean; I must say however, that I do not know of a
single foul deed which Karpusha performed. He just was not always squeamish, but
are there many people who are not squeamish? For his family he did immeasurably
Page 31 more than their father. He practically put all of them on their feet, and always helped his
brothers and sisters. To the end of his days he loved being the “prince”, but always was
kind and good to everybody. In a moment which was difficult for me, when fate threw
me and my family into poverty in Europe, he supported me greatly, providing me with an
income from his factory – and I want to say “thank you” to him here.
After Karpusha came Sofia. She was born probably in the year 1872 and went to
high school, did not marry. In Paris she lived with the Samsansonovs. Next, in 1874
came Sergei, same age as I, became a lawyer, was a lawyer in Sevastopol, and
remained there. According to rumors he died on a street in Simferopol. The next was
Christofor, studied in high school, later was a pharmacist in Kazan. He was married to
a Gusikov and had children. I do not know what happened to them all, they did not live
in the Crimea. Then came Tatjana; she also did not go to highschool. She was very
pretty, and Karpusha found a very good husband for her. He was a very intelligent but
weak Nikolai Michailovich Samsonov, owner (inheritance from his mother) of the vodka
company Petrov, by education a biologist and by nature an intellectual. Earlier he had
studied outside of Russia, perhaps in Freiburg, and worked in Paris in the Pasteur
Institute. As a wealthy man, he was unable to earn money and when I was in Paris they
did not live well. They had one son, Viktor, the same age as Andrjusha.
After Tatjana followed Aleksander, who was born in the year 1880. He was probably
the most unsuccessful of all, and again the question of teaching him a trade arose, but
again ended with nothing.
Somehow much later he graduated from
the Odessa
University as a lawyer, but at the moment of the Revolution had not had any work yet.
He married a Russian nurse whose name and family I do not know – a very nice young
woman.
She, together with her son and her husband Aleksander’s mother, Anna
Karpovna, fled with us from the second wave of Bolsheviks to Sevastopol in our
carriage – and I never saw her or her husband again. I heard that Sasha died in
Simferopol. Finally, two last ones - Viktor and Nikolai who were born probably in the
years 1883 and ‘85 and whom I knew less. Viktor finished law school, but was more
Page 32 active with modeling, and later in Paris with small businesses, but Nikolai was a
mechanical engineer. In Paris they lived together with the Samsonovs. How did these
two old people cope with everything they had experienced in those days in Paris?
Maria Sergeevna Nalbandova was the first one in the family to get married. Her
husband was Moiseii Christoforovich Nersesov; the first half of his life he was called
‘Mosekst’ in Armenian and later, I believe under the influence of Armenian patriotism, he
became a Nersesov.
He had a reputation as an excellent
young businessman-
manufacturer, very active and intelligent. But travels to Moscow and Nizhgorod fairs
with their long duration and entertainments completely ruined him, and I knew him only
when he was weak and a run-down alcoholic. In the inheritance of his wife were two three stores carved from the house of N.S. When I was in high school, the Armenian
Row , like an unbroken chain of small manufacturing stores, remained only partially and
already contained stores which were neither Armenian nor were involved in
manufacturing. In this same way, one of the stores was occupied by a very common
beer tavern, and often one could see how the husband of the owner of the store,
staggering, exited from there, having payed on credit. But despite this misfortune of the
Nersesovs, the family was wonderfully close, intelligent and talented, never turning
away from their unpleasant father. I remember seeing how the oldest son, already in
the last year of highschool, carefully led his drunken father and one could see nothing
except tender care in the face of the son. Unfortunately, monetary misunderstandings
about the inheritance so ruined the relations between the Nersesovs and Nalbandovs,
that they never improved and we, children, never went to the house of the Nersesovs.
But we knew that it was always poor but gay there: they all could play an instrument,
sing, and be merry as much as possible.
The oldest son, Emmanuil, completed a degree in history-philosophy, but entered
service in the Kazan government and later was head of a department there. He was
wonderfully handsome and intelligent in a typically Armenian manner, tall, very musical
with a good voice. He organized the choir in our church and for many years was its
Page 33 director. Not only its director, but in fact the church’s leader and that of the Armenian
society of the entire town. As far as sympathies go, he undoubtedly was an Armenian
nationalist, but since he was a government official he could not declare this openly, and
he masked this by being the choir director but in reality the leader of the Armenians. An
additional situation influenced his behavior.
During the Jewish pogrom of 1905 an
unfortunate incident occurred – a Jew came to his entrance door, begging to be taken
in. Evidently fearing for himself and his family, Emmanuil refused, and the man was
killed by the mob which had just come almost to the porch of the house of E. Perhaps
they hunted only this particular Jew and may have pulled him out of the apartment of
Nersesov, but this happening so affected him that he could not overcome this at all and
went to Italy for half a year. Of course his relationship with the Jews of Simferopol
became more difficult – they could not forgive him his refusal to help, and he retreated
farther into his shell. Nevertheless he remained a member of the duma in the town, and
the head of its finance committee. He became very careful in his appearances, and
when in the years 1910 or ‘11 a wave of persecution of Armenians swept through the
whole South and their church and common properties (this situation only concerned
Gregorian Armenians) were given to be governed by a group of specially assigned
administrators, I had to appear in the duma. One of these officials in our town was a
well-known member of the duma, very Russian and right-wing, but very honest and
decent, A.K. Romanson. In order to clarify the situation and to reassure the Armenians
who were worried, it was decided to raise the questions about these properties in the
duma and to give him the opportunity, since he also was an official of the Governing of
Federal Properties – to report on this situation and to state that this was a temporary
measure, which the government undertook as a warning for the Armenians in the
Caucasus, among whom, ridiculous and uninformed, some separatists were roaming
about. This was in connection with an attempt by Turkish Armenians to better their
situation in Turkey and hoping for help from England (Dillon!)*.
We understood
Nersesov’s situation and did not hold his caution against him, but sometimes it crossed
the line, and one could only shrug one’s shoulders. He was married to Duna
Anushikova, who also sang with a gorgeous voice in the church choir. I believe that
Page 34 they had 5 children. I knew their oldest son, Eduard, slightly; he left with his father
during the Evacuation, with Wrangel, and then supported his father in Constantinopol by
playing the violin. Emmanuil died in K. what happened to Eduard and the rest of the
family who stayed in the Crimea, I do not know.
The next after Emmanuil was a
daughter, Ustina, who had inherited her beautiful facial color from her mother; we were
somehow closer with her than with all the other members of that family, and she was
more intelligent than the others. Later she married one of my classmates from Moscow
University, Lev Robertovich Baum. During Wrangel’s time he was tax inspector in
Sevastopol. Their son Sergei was a very pleasant person but quite simple; there was a
problem with his education, later he learned bookkeeping and for many years was an
assistant to a bookkeeper and bookkeeper for the church.
The next sister, Sofia, I remember only slightly, but she was pretty and gay, and
completed the Moscow Conservatory. She married a friend of Emmanuil from high
school, Genry, who already was a teacher in a high school. To their wedding, which
was celebrated in the house, mostly on the gorgeous stone veranda between two wings
of the old Nalbandov house, my brother Serjezha and I were also invited, both of us
students at that time. This beautiful Crimean evening, dusk – not yet night, with singing
and dancing, playing musical instruments – I remember it still in detail. And at dawn we
were given horses, and from the wedding we rolled directly into our Agach-Eli, and
never again did I see Sonja, Genry, or their children.
Frosja, same age as I, resembled her mother very much, and with her I also was
closer. She limped on one leg, and strangely enough, this made us closer and also
more distant. At some time I will stop and write in more detail about this feeling, and
now will only say that this deficiency did not prevent this lovely girl from finding a good
husband – I believe a marine engineer in Sevastopol.
Finally, the two last ones: the boy Sasha and the girl Christina. I generally know
much less about the youngest relatives than about the older ones, because after
Page 35 finishing high school in the year 1892, I spent fourteen years away from Simferopol,
being there only occasionally, and it was during those years that the younger relatives
grew up and established themselves. I know that Christina was married to a good
officer, but what became of Sasha – I simply do not know.
But about these two
children, even though with hesitation, I want to write in more detail. Not about them, but
about their behavior. Least of all I would want to “gossip”, but for you, Andrjusha, it
seems that it would be of interest – an observation. The old Nesersesov had a brother,
Ivan. This person repelled me and frightened me during my young years. Of huge size,
with a thick face and hairy cheeks, with rings on his hands and covered with charm
bracelets, he laughed and spoke with some unusual voice. I only saw him on Stepa’s
estates. He was always the first to sit down at the card table and the last to rise from it,
always had luck in the game, and my mother once told me his favorite aphorism: ‘cards,
like horses, feel the hand of the coachman.’ Whether this was only a philosophical
observation or whether Ivan Christoforovitch simply used the simplicity of his partners,
who were far from proficient card players, I cannot judge, but must say that my almost
physical aversion to this person rested on purely external reasons, and I do not know of
any negative actions by this man. I know that he was some kind of contractor and
earned very well with contracts concerning railroads and was a great benefactor for the
family of his older brother. Undoubtedly, it could survive and provide an education for
the children only due to his assistance. It is therefore not at all unusual to think that
M.S. finally preferred this in his own way handsome man, who was unvariably kind to
her children, to her and to her at that time already fallen and broken husband. Who
would judge her? But nature provided her own mirror. All the older children of M.S.,
especially the girls had the wonderfully pretty and somehow graceful, fine faces M.S.
herself and her sister, Aunt Nasti, our Aunt Sonja and it seemed to me from my father’s
stories, our grandmother. Only the two last ones sharply differed from that type of face.
They were somehow very large, had heavy faces, were very gay and spoke with the
same unusual voices. Unfortunately I did not see them when they were grown up, but
in their childhood there was no doubt left. Admit, dear Andrjusha, that the facts are
curious, in one set of children the mother’s facial features predominate, in another those
Page 36 of the father. Perhaps all this is not news to you, do not be angry about the ‘gossip’
about our family.
I can only say that the ‘general opinion’ could not not see the facts,
but I never heard words of judgment against M.S. Maybe in the estrangement of my
father with that whole family this circumstance, in the end, did not play a role. For him
this was a very unpleasant and unclean influence of Ivan Christoforovich.
Anna Sergeevna Nalbandova was a small, round person, constantly puttering
around and murmuring something in Armenian.
She was married twice.
husband, Artem Petrovich Uzunov was a merchant-manufacturer.
Her first
A.S. received a
dowry of a store carved out of our house. On this property her husband built - this was
so long ago, that I only remember this store in its present state – a very nice store with
decorative doors and, considered at that time large glass windows and an overhang
over the whole store; this overhang stood on thin cast iron columns. All this was
evidence of his aesthetic necessities, as in the provinces it was not easy to obtain cast
iron even in my time. The business of Uzunov was not going badly, but for some
reason he became despondent and hanged himself on the post of his bed.
Anna
Sergevna mourned, and then married Grigory Petrovich Tjutjudzhi – a huge, fat black
person without a discernible occupation. We, the children, called him a coachman, and
he paid us no attention whatsoever.
Anastasija Sergeevna Nalbandova was the youngest and Father’s favorite sister. I
already wrote that she was an unusually reticent and silent woman with a kindly smile
on her lips and pretty eyes. She married Egor Ivanovich Murzaev from Karasubazar.
The Murzaevs lived there and in Feodosia. They owned a vineyard in Sudak and E.I.
was a wine grower and wine merchant. They moved to Simferopol when I was already
a student, that is, did not live at home much. Nevertheless, with them we developed a
happier relationship than with the other sisters, but the coldness which all the brothersin-law showed towards my father during the time of the inheritance matter among the
young Nalbandovs, was still apparent. Egor Ivanovich was not at all a stupid person
and told many interesting things in the realm of wine growing, however, his interests
Page 37 always were about the commercial aspects, but we always were only wine producers.
Their oldest son Sergeii probably was the contemporary of our Serjozha. He also was
in the wine business, more of a wine merchant and was a very pleasant and kind
person.
Intelligent and educated was Marija – she finished high school in Feodosia
and married, I believe, a doctor from Cracow – probably Ivanov. A little older than I was
Ivan Egorovich, having finished law school in Moscow. In the beginning we seemed to
be sympathetic to each other, but later lost sight of each other. He was an attorney in
Melitopol, later moved to Simferopol and during the revolution turned out to be a very
active cadet in the left crowd. It was said that he very much loved to speak during party
meetings, and his fellow lawyers gave him the nickname ‘Mirabo’. When in the years
1917- 18 the “democratic” local duma was established, I.E. and I sometimes met at the
general sessions. I was the only representative of the bourgeoisie, and I.S. was the
head of the Cadet party and one of its seven representatives. But all 8 of us drowned in
the sea of the 120 or 130 representatives of various shades. The three girls Sofia,
Anna and Julia I knew very little. Anna seemed very pleasant to me – the contemporary
of our Edja who completed a course in Leoben, in the Mining Institute.
What became
of all these relatives – I do not know.
3. My father.
In old age, I believe my father was more handsome than in his youth. Rather tall –
he was taller and more solidly built than both uncles and in general inherited more from
his mother than from his father – with large but handsome and straight lines in his face,
a high forehead, he stood out in a crowd and involuntarily drew people’s eyes. To a
somewhat practiced eye his Armenian origin became evident immediately, but he did
not have, so to speak, stark Armenian features. He was not a black-skinned brunet, he
was lighter, and when he was already gray-haired – I only remember him when he was
already gray – his small beard and his hair beautifully framed his face.
He even
became bald differently from his brothers. They had what was called billiard balls, but
Father’s began on his forehead and only enhanced his height.
His eyes were
wonderful. There was nothing Eastern about them. They were green-gray, very quiet
Page 38 and could be very tender.
I do not know if, because there was nothing typically
Armenian in him, or because he spent his whole childhood in the same boarding school
where his brothers also studied, but his Russian language was totally clear and did not
have that characteristic tone in which everyone spoke who had grown up speaking the
Armenian language. As I have already written, he did not finish high school, and this
left a sad imprint on his whole life. In boarding school he learned to speak German and
French well, and even though he had no practice in later years to speak these
languages, much later when he began to build a mill in Agach-Eli, he always spoke with
Malif, a French flour miller who was supervising the building, in French. He played the
piano not badly, but all this was neglected after he left the boarding school and high
school. He did not read much. His education was interrupted at the moment when
reading serious books was not yet a need, the chores and details of life filled his days
for a long time; his surroundings did not only not push him to continue his education, but
were totally beneath his intellectual level, and his material situation for a long time did
not allow expenses for books. All this he felt much later, but it was already late, the
skills for learning were lost and his education ended. But he always spoke about this,
and once in a while took a long, serious book to read, but quickly began to brood- and
the book remained unfinished.
He also was terribly impatient – he always lacked
endurance and a system. For this reason I cannot remember that he even once came
to help us with our studies. Very dimly I do remember that sometimes in the evening
Father came to the children’s room and ‘studied’ with my brother Serjezha. But nothing
good came of this, and the experiment was repeated only after a long interruption. I
believe that this same impatience hindered him to summon that effort which is always
necessary when reading a serious book until its contents truly become interesting to
you.
All together the tangled circumstances of his youth influenced Father very
unpleasantly. They not only ended his education, at 19 years of age they pushed him
into the path of dark activities and behind-the-scenes people of those times. It was
necessary to somehow end 40 lawsuits without being prepared, without knowledge of
the legal matters and cunning and having only the saying as a guide : ‘without a bribe,
there is no ride’. Father was a person of wonderful honesty. Looking through all his life
Page 39 which is familiar to me – and our family was close, and nothing was hidden from the
children – I do not find a single instance where one could accuse my father of a
dishonest action. And with great anger he told us those occurences, when during his
youth he needed to go against his conscience. They very evidently plagued him and as
the only excuse for his behavior he only said one thing: “remember our situation at that
time.” But alone the fact that he told us about things which we would not have known
about otherwise, and which he easily could have concealed, showed how foreign this
would have been to his deep conviction; he justified himself to us, he sought his own
justification for himself. And he never made his stories out to be about ‘deals’ with the
bravado: look, family, with what cunning I managed this! I remember how the story with
the wood ended, about which I have already written. In the formal courts of those days,
missing a deadline was final. And so, after a long delay in some office, the lawsuit
ended in favor of the accuser, that is, Nalbandov. The opposing side (it was someone
named Orlowski, about whom Father never could speak without disdain) could appeal
this decision. There was no Orlowski in town, and after a sufficient time had passed
there was no appeal. Only a few days remained, and the huge sum of this debt would
have fallen from the shoulders of the ruined heirs. But almost at the end of the deadline
allowed for the appeal, the brother of O. came to Father and said: I know that this deal
is not right. My brother sent me the appeal to give to the court. If you give me (I think)
one thousand rubles, I will let the deadline pass. Of course Father gave him the money,
but having learned through bitter experience, and clearly feeling that he stepped onto a
bad path, he could not calm himself; he was now plagued by a new torment: what if this
too was a swindle, and not only the thousand rubles were lost? But the brother of
Orlowski turned out to be more honest (!) than Orlowski himself. “I did not feel my legs
under me for happiness” Father said upon returning from court, when the judgment
about his deceit, because of the passed deadline, became final. I remember one of his
stories about his brother Nikita, who once went to the police station to settle some
matter or other, but instead quarreled with the official and said a nasty word to him.
That one did not let the chance pass to write up a complaint about the insult to an
official on duty – before a witness – and it cost Father a lot of trouble and a number of
Page 40 silver rubles to hush up the matter. At that time the accounting system was changing
over to silver rubles, and to the end of his days Father wrote: ‘100 rb.silver.’ Altogether,
bribes were unavoidable, and Father spoke about them with a feeling of deep aversion.
And this aversion persisted the remainder of his life. Later I worked with him many
times, and never heard him even hinting about the possibility of giving someone a bribe.
But during his dark, pre-reform days of his youth, one really could not live without
bribes.
Father was married in 1866, when he was 22 years old. When the inheritance
matters were finally unscrambled, the children separated and each went to his or her
own house, and a question arose for him – what to do next. Despite his young years,
there could be no question of further study: one needed something to live on. The
houses of the old Nalbandov were acquired so cleverly, that each one turned out to be,
even if not gold, then certainly silver and capable of feeding a family. But the houses
were burdened with large mortgages and so neglected over time that they needed large
restorations. And so Father began to search for work with an income. At one time
there arose the nebulous idea of becoming a lawyer – and he began to study while
working in a lawyer’s office. At that time there were still not enough certified lawyers,
but in the high schools primary jurisprudence was being taught, so that non-lawyer
graduates were not that greatly unfamiliar with the law as we were. The hope did not
become reality, but the attainment of knowledge helped Father in his life, and brought a
new idea: to become an insurance agent. Again the study began, but one could also
see beforehand that Father did not have the sharpness and aggressiveness which were
prerequisits in such an agency. Even worse were his commercial attempts. Some
Armenian convinced him to purchase nuts for resale.
He never told us about this
himself, but Mother always told about this catastrophy with a smile. A companion was
supposed to travel to various Tatar gardens in the spring and hand out a down
payment. Father took part in the deal financially and was supposed to provide the
warehouse and receive the merchandise. Autumn came. Some of the sellers simply
did not bring anything. What was delivered was badly cleaned and not dried. The deal
Page 41 which seemed to be simple, demanded knowledge – as a result, the nuts were covered
with mold and caused only a deficit. Finally, someone talked Father into buying wool.
This was already much later, so that even I remember from my earliest childhood how in
one of the sheds in our courtyard the purchased wool was sorted and counted, and
Welisha, a huge, dark, and frightful to me Gypsy, worked for hours in a warehouse
where the wool was hanging from large beams, to get it ready for shipment to Odessa.
Mother helped in the warehouse by sorting the wool and threw away with great disgust
large pieces of the dirt it contained and sometimes simply stones, added “for the weight”
to the wool which was delivered to my father.
And from this enterprise nothing
developed, but at this time Father was able (in the year 1879) to buy an estate, and with
this his attempts to find financial deals, ended. In my opinion, he found an occupation
for himself for the rest of his life and for his well-being. The necessary interruption of
his education, the sharp change from wealth to a complete ignorance of what will be
tomorrow, a change with difficult tribulations among the uncultured people of a small
provincial town undoubtedly often and deeply affected his young pride and self-respect,
and this certainly pierced his soul and marked his future life negatively.
He was
infinitely lonesome, even having his somewhat childish, unable brothers, his two older
sisters, who basically sided with their husbands and together with them were only
interested to gain more for themselves and their families and totally unable to carry out
new efforts to improve their inheritance, nor in the Armenian society and the church
which asked for material support even if that meant the destruction of the family.
Nowhere did he find a mentor, nowhere a friend. Not even among lawyers. And bit by
bit, he slowly distanced himself from people, retreated into a shell and never left it
again.
He never, even later, had friends or even comrades.
He lived only in his
immediate family and was close to the large family of our mother. In the winter he often
went to the town’s club to read the newspapers, but he remained alone even there. He
did not play cards – at that time the greatest means of forming a group, did not play
chess or billiards, did not like to dine in restaurants – and returned home around 10
o’clock, as silent, reserved and brooding as he had left two hours earlier. But within him
an interest in people and their activities burned brightly. He was a council member in the
Page 42 so-called six-member local duma, and after the establishment of a new administration in
town remained a council member and always was re-elected. He did not miss meetings
and remained the same reserved Sergei Sergeevich of few words whom everyone knew
and appreciated.
Many dark and unclean circumstances also clouded the new
administration’s ‘self-government’ in our only slightly cultured town. I remember for
example the war of all decent people in town against a member of the Kazar district.
This wily Greek cleverly used the ‘voting right’ and in the moment of the election
mobilized a whole horde of Gypsies who lived in a Gypsy settlement and had their huts
there.
He inscribed them all in the lists of homeowners, fed them chebureki from
portable pots and commanded them which candidates would get black and who would
get white balls during the election. The election took place and the results were that the
duma was such that the Kazaris were again elected for four-year terms and again ruled
in town as they wanted, little concerned with the powerless ‘opposition’. At that time I
was still a small high school student, but clearly remember how Father often complained
and told Mother of the Kazarian doings and the inability of the duma to prevent them.
Father was very interested in land legislation, but in the meetings there was so little
representation of non-nobles that they seldom could achieve their aims. But in the
duma he was not replaced, and there were times when we attended the same
meetings: Father as a council member and I as the head of the land department. This
did not last for a long time, but I saw that Father enjoyed total respect among the
representatives, even though he seldom spoke. However, everyone knew the Sergei
Sergeevich will always vote for good, responsible outcomes for all the inhabitants of the
town. They also knew that he did not like political outbursts and trivial provincial politics,
but always would stand up for the dignity of the local self-government and its
representatives. Soon after the death of Father, I was elected into the upper duma (in
the inheritance section) and after the election one of the oldest council members, Ch.K.
Kelov, approached me and said: “we elected you in place of your father, and hope that
you will take his place with the same merit.”
If Father went to the meetings of the duma with interest, then the rare occasions
Page 43 when it was necessary to meet with the parish of our church usually ended with Father’s
great irritation, and we always feared these meetings.
Everything in the past had
already been chewed through and forgotten, new cultural forces came to our parish, the
first academicians appeared. But time also brought new nationalistic waves, which
Father never shared. He spoke Armenian perfectly well, prayed in that language, never
was ashamed to speak it in public when he was approached in that language, did not
distance himself from Armenian society, but the idea of an independent Armenia was
strange to him, and “knowing some contemporary Armenians”, never believed in the
possibility of such independence. But he also never fought with the new waves and did
not bother them as long as they did not touch the matter of his father’s – our church.
But when bit by bit, slowly, all of the income of the church property was to be used for
the school and the parish, while in the church the roof leaked and repairs were denied
due to the lack of money, Father did not tolerate this and – a fight which lasted many
years, began and cost Father many nerves. In the end they reconciled and decided that
a certain sum would be used for the upkeep of the church, but the relationship to the
church and its administrators was such that Father found it necessary to strengthen the
acknowledgement of the contribution of Grandfather and insisted that he be allowed to
put a marble tablet with the words in Russian and Armenian: “This [seii] temple was built
with the funds and endeavors of Sergei Iv. Nalbandov” at the very entrance of the first
courtyard. “Otherwise these boys” as Father called the new young members, “will try to
erase from the memory of the members that which my father had done for them,” he
told us. I remember that the word “seii” seemed to him as well as to us, very oldfashioned, but the word “this” seemed not venerable and not appropriate to the
solemnity of the place.
The years passed. The well-being of the family increased, monetary problems had
ceased a long time ago, life healed old wounds, the children grew up and gave no
reason to be dissatisfied, but that which I call a spiritual disintegration, did not
disappear. Something was missing for Father. Reserved, perfectly well-mannered,
polite in a somehow Eastern, old-fashioned way, he could not make peace with the
Page 44 people surrounding him. He was very careful, unusually modest in his requirements
and simply feared everything that could be called ostentatious. How many times he told
us: “one who has been thrown out of a carriage will not sit down in one a second time.”
And he did not only say this. When, many years later, doctors advised that Mother
should be taken around to the village in a closed carriage during inclement weather, on
the insistence of her sister – my brothers and I did not live at home anymore – Father
bought a small carriage, and riding in it was torture for him. He consented to do this
when he drove to the village with Mother, but he never agreed to drive around town in it
either for business or visiting. “I had better take a coachman” he would always say. But
he was never cheap or stingy. He built much – renovated the whole house in town, built
new features in Agach-Eli – and everything was built first-class, practical and useful. He
always bought material of the best kind, and did not look for domestic frugality. I always
admired him when he went along on Mother’s shopping expeditions and sat silently by
until she would ask for his opinion, and he would turn to the salesperson and smiled and
asked: “but is there something better?” But at the same time, once in Petersburg in an
antiquarian store, where Mother and I very much liked two electrical lamps in the shape
of torches of good bronze and enamel - and we were just searching for two lamp
brackets mounted on a wall for the front of the new house – he totally refused to buy
them even though they cost only 75 rubles – this already was ostentation and this was
foreign to his soul. He did not drink and did not like to drink, could not stand card
playing and was always bored in the company of our friends where everybody drank
and played cards. Usually he sat down at some table or with some group and quietly
smoked or walked among the tables and observed the players. His biggest joy was to
listen to his sister’s singing, and in order that he could have that joy, I brought from
Petersburg – still in 1900 – a good telephone.
We connected Agach-Eli with Kojash
and then when his sister went to the piano, she put the receiver on the music stand and
Father could listen to her songs during the long autumn evenings, without leaving his
seat on the sofa. What happiness a radio would have been for him!
In everyday life he was impractical to the point of helplessness. I simply cannot
Page 45 imagine Father with a needle in his hands, sewing on a button, cooking himself an egg
or stoking the hearth. In this helplessness probably everything came together – the
Eastern custom of drawing a line between work done by men and women, and having
spent his youth far from domestic conditions, and being spoiled by his wife who did
everything for him including tying his tie. But there was something else. His brothers,
for example, again according to the Eastern custom, went to the bazar with their cooks
– this was done in all Eastern countries – the husband buys and thus determines the
internal business of the family and its permissible expenses, and the wife prepares what
has been brought home. But one just cannot imagine Father buying meat or fish or even
a melon or watermelon. There was something in him – he sincerely and without any ill
will simply did not notice all the details of life. He loved to eat, to eat much and well, but
I never heard him savor the food, or that he said to his wife : “cook this or that for me.”
He seldom separated from Mother, but, for example, when he went to Marienbad he
never mentioned anything about the food, only that he disliked Austrian tobacco and
cigarettes. And in this lack of noticing the details, I see the explanation for his coldness
towards people, not seeing other people’s misfortunes. To us, his children, he was
endlessly kind, but also very quick-tempered. When he was angry, his voice simply
thundered throughout the house, and everyone feared him, but the matter abated
quickly and he only remained quiet and more melancholy than usual – and I know that
his outbursts and often sharp, unjustified words bothered him deeply. Therefore we
feared him less than we feared Mother. I did not only love my father, I treasured and
treasure him as a person of unusual inner dignity, and it is difficult for me to leave these
memories of him. I wanted to understand him and explain him to you, what hindered
this person from being happy. I think the cause was his disappointment with life. He
was born with a deep and beautiful soul. Life let it develop and strengthen. If he had
received a good education, he may perhaps have had a supportive center which gives a
person strength and will for action. Due to the circumstances of his upbringing, he did
not have the time or the spiritual material which gave us, his children, our years at the
university in which we could develop our own spiritual world as well as find our way and
to manage life’s battles and the attempt to fashion it in our own way. In addition, people
Page 46 deeply offended him in his youth and immediately showed him life from its most
unattractive side. And his whole later happiness –because his own family was as happy
as ours was – could not heal those wounds. He remained a disappointed person. The
little provincial Onegin found his Tatjana, was not afraid of her simplicity and lack of
education, and was accepting of his ‘being accustomed’ , did never stop loving her, but
all that did not change anything in his soul. “Nothing, nothing pleases me,” he used to
tell me during the last years of his life during times of fatherly talks. “I would like to go
away somewhere, build myself one room and live in it.” And this was said by a healthy,
wealthy man, who was surrounded by a family who loved and treasured him sincerely,
and for whom he still represented an authoritative father, even though all his children
already stood on their own feet and were fathers themselves. Without a doubt, his
children also did not “please” him in his own understanding of this word. For him all of
us probably were too noisily active, took life too easily, did not know of its deep inner
tragedies, which were clear to him because of his earlier experiences, but he enjoyed
the glitter of our successes and happiness. Our dear father, you were right: a few years
after your death passed, and life showed us its other face, and threw your children and
grandchildren out of the coach again, but without any hope of getting into some other
coach, only a streetcar. Your brave warning: do not believe life, not expressed with
those words, but laying at the base of your philosophy of life, did not teach any one of
us, also did not teach me, even though for me, I believe you had more hope.
I
remember that once after an argument with Mother, during which he wounded her
deeply with some harsh and careless words, I defended her and also told him sharply
that he was not right. He suddenly stopped talking, looked at me sadly and said: “even
you do not understand me, but I was so hoping that you would understand.....”
Throughout the rest of my life I could not forget that phrase, nor the sadness with
which he said it, or the look in his eyes. Forgive me, Papa!
4. Grandfather Matvei Ivanovich
Page 47 Our German grandfather Schlee was born in Russia in the Klein Blumental Colony
in the Melitopolsky District, Tavrichesky region where his grandfather and his wife and
ten children were sent, having left Baden in the very beginning of the XIX or the end of
the XVIII century. One must admit that the German colonization of the south of Russia
was accomplished exemplarily, in any case exemplarily based and envisioned for
healthy economic conditions. Perhaps at first it was not easy for the settlers – as was
written by Pochiten in his books – but they each were given 60 tithes (192 acres)- and
what soil!
It was forbidden to divide this acreage into more than two parts, and
therefore each farm contained not less than 30 tithes (96) acres. If the same or
something similar had been done for the Russian farmers and if then when Germans
were brought into Russia, the governmental powers had thought through to the idea of
Chichikov (**) to “import” to the South of course not dead, but live Russian souls, much
in the history of Russia would have been different. The mother of our grandfather died
early, and his father married for the second time. When the second wife bore a son,
Mathias understood that he had to leave home; on the donated land only one son could
be in charge, but according to German customs, at least with the settlers, after the
death of the father the farm went to the youngest son who cared for the mother until her
death.
This was a rational custom which was later followed by Matvei Ivanovich
himself. He moved to Simferopol and began as a worker in a bakery. At that time there
was a large Germany colony of settlers in Simferopol and even merchants, so that the
existence of a German bakery was common, despite the competition with the
Armenians and Turks. Remnants of this colony existed even during my childhood, and
in my memory are still the names of some families, but already as well-to-do home
owners. (I remember the sign of the coach maker T.I. Brenner, watchmaker Wirt, music
store Zachvarov [a strange last name for a German, but he was undoubtedly a German
judging by his character and language], coach and iron smith Lutz, the carpenter Ekkert
who made my first crutches, the tin smiths Freilich and List, clothier Kuster, baker Wist).
I almost forgot the then famous sausage store, where a beautiful sign hung outside said
F. Pape. Pape’s son was a small, fat and pale little German like his father; he was my
classmate, and when returning home from highschool, we never forgot while passing
Page 48 the store, to loudly read the sign: ‘F. Pape – Friedrich Hape’. Why this caused the littly
Fred to erupt I do not know, but we never missed the opportunity to tease our comrade.
But it must be said that the sausage at F. Pape was always marvelous, and the house
which he built on the main street was one of the best houses in town.
Gradually Grandfather also became a house owner. He bought a small house on
the corner of the same Grechesky corner on which the same bakery where he began as
a worker was, and the so-called Vodouchnaja side street. The little house had a small
apartment of the landlord in the yard, an apartment and workroom of the iron smith Lutz
and a simple tavern by the gate – a modest house from which later his various
successful baby birds flew out into the world. And it must be said that all his nestlings
loved him deeply and were drawn to him to the end of his life. This little house also
played a role in our, his grandchildren’s, lives, but about this, later. But I must describe
in more detail the Vodouchnaja side street. In essence it was a constantly dry ditch,
about two meters deep and about four meters across, with steep walls. It extended from
the Grechesky Street and its origin was covered with a wooden bridge with railings on
both sides. People needed care when crossing it after visiting the tavern in the Schlee
house. At the bridge was a kerosin lantern put there for them, and the old man Lust, at
that time when I knew him being a constant client of the tavern, but having a certificate
for the task of lighting the city, took care that the lantern would shine brightly every
night.
But the picture changed completely during the almost tropical rainstorms of
summer. The waters formed rivers from both sides – from the Sauchirkky Street and
from the so-called Gorky - collected at the mouth of the ditch creating real water
whirlpools and speeding onward farther downward.
Of course the first thing the
inhabitants living there did was to throw themselves at the trestles to open the road bed
of the ditch. But often the water did not flow into the ditch, the sidewalks were flooded
and the water rose almost to the windows of the rather low houses. I remember that
once they either forgot or did not have enough time to open the road bed. Water
streamed from there and began to rise even on Grechesky Street
and to flood
Grandmother’s courtyard. My, how much agitation this caused! Sacks with manure
Page 49 were lugged outside – there were horse stables in the courtyard where the sons of
Grandmother tethered their horses when they came from their estates to visit - covered
them with stones and only with difficulty stopped the water from coming farther into the
yard and from there into the apartments. But in other buildings the waters rose to the
windows and for a long time afterwards decorated the walls with mushrooms formed by
the dampness. The beginnings of the Schlee nest began in modest and by far not firstclass conditions. And Grandfather decided to return to his original decision: agricultural
work. I only know two stages of his life. First, working on leased earth. After the war of
Sevastopol, finishing unsuccessfully for Russia, but having nevertheless shown that the
Crimea changed into Russian hands forever and permanently, among the Tatar
population a wish to settle into Turkey, having the same religion, arose again, and
many villages became empty. One of these villages – Uch-Kuju-Tarchan about 10
versts (ca 5 miles) from Agach-Eli, Grandfather rented and took with him his favorite
daughter, Varja who was 14 years old, as a housekeeper. Grandfather’s family already
was rather large, but the living conditions in the village were too inconvenient for
transporting the whole household there, and in addition, some of the children were
going to school and had to live in town.
And Grandfather’s decision became
understandable when listening to Mother’s stories about living there. The name of the
village itself showed that there were 3 dwellings (uch – 3 in the Tatar language). This
meant that each bucket of water for the animals, the kitchen and for living had to be
pulled up and brought home. As in all Crimean prairie villages and so in this one,
exlusive of some acacias, there were no woods, no bushes, no trees, cooking and
baking was done on a tripod. The dwellings consisted of old, run-down Tatar claywalled huts which constantly had to be covered and repaired with clay mixed with
manure in order to prevent cold from blowing in. The floors were of course of clay,
instead of a fireplace and a chimney to the roof, there was a tripod which burned with
dried manure.
Grandfather and his daughter lived in one hut, in the other a working Tatar
woman, in the next their workers, then the animals, and so forth. And under these
Page 50 circumstances they worked so successfully that they did not only support the whole
family, but Grandfather was even able to buy a small piece of much more desirable
land, in the North of Simferopol –Chuike. The only diversions were trips to Kronental (
that was then the name of the German colony, later it was renamed Bulganak, next to
Agach-Eli), where a large number of relatives lived. From Mother’s stories of life in UchKuju-Tarchan I remember a story about a small but very characteristic episode. One of
the huts was a store room where milk and a variety of milk products were kept. There
was of course no talk even of refrigeration or under-the-earth preservation, and the only
defense against spoilage of the products was total cleanliness. And suddenly the milk
began to taste bitter. “I felt this immediately,” Mother said, “and began to look for the
cause. I washed and re-washed the dishes, towels, checked the cows, again washed
the walls of the hut, nothing helped, and the milk stayed bitter and smelled strange.
Finally Grandfather also noticed this and asked me: “what is this with you and the milk,
Varja?”
I told him of my misery.
“Let us go to the hut” Father said.
We came,
everything was clean, on the floor stood the vats with the milk – all covered. Father
looked and looked, and suddenly said: “ and what have you there?” and took the broom
which was standing in the corner. “Put this away and all will be well.” And so it was!
What was the matter? The matter was that in that semi-desert land the brooms were
home-produced, and they were made, as they were made even in our presence by
village women, from branches of sagebrush. This bright silvery- looking plant, favored
by the French and used in the production of the now-forbidden absinthe, for us was a
symbol of poor soil. It is truly amazing that it grows in such poor, arid soil where no
other plants could have survived. I remember that in our Chadzijevka in the garden of
the first apartment on the left, almost at the exit, there were some such bright silvery
sagebrushes. They spread doggedly from year to year and flourished when all other
plants suffered from the lack of rain. I often stopped by this amazing grass – it smells
wonderfully, is very soft and silky and pleased me very much, and I always thought: it all
depends on one’s point of view. How can one explain the affinity of these grasses for
poor, useless soil? I understand it when stronger plants crowd or altogether inhibit you,
then of course you will, in your sorrow, even grow on a stone, but the instinct to move to
Page 51 better soil at the first opportunity must exist? And there should exist at least two types
of sagebrush – fuller and taller, more aristocratic on the better soil and a more mildmannered one which was thrown here and there. But the sagebrush continued to grow
only where nothing else wanted to grow. Is that the will to be proud once one has been
elbowed out onto the poor soil – I no longer want your good one! Or perhaps the
acceptance of humiliation? (perhaps this humiliation affected so hotly not only the body
but also the soul?) – I had better not go to the good soil – they will push me out again!
However this was, in our South, sagebrush even became a saying: ‘where sagebrush
grows, a German does not live’. Our southern colonist chose good soil and never
minded the money and he gladly paid more than all the other buyers.
He never
conducted soil analyses, but with his practiced eye he eradicated the sagebrush.
Therefore, one could draw two conclusions from Mother’s stories. The first? : never put
milk next to strong-smelling and generally exuding absinthe oil sagebrush; the
sagebrush did not only transmit its smell to the milk, but also its astonishing heat;
second: Grandfather did not stay in Uch-Kujut-Tarchan but escaped farther away to a
place where there grew less sagebrush or none at all, and where there was more rain
than in our maritime corner.
Matvei Ivanovich probably married young to Marie Sevastianovna Schneider and in
that manner exited from the Crimean German settlers and joined the large Schneider
family. The Kronental (later Bulganak) Colony in the Simferopol disctrict was founded
and settled in the year 1805.
This was one of the smaller and undoubtedly less
successful colonies. Crammed into the desert, with little water and into a rain-less
corner, it consisted of Lutherans and Catholics – and two churches and two schools in
the middle of center of the colony almost documented for all time the whole depth of this
difference – this colony never achieved the development and did not play the role which
many others did. I think that the father of my grandmother, the old Sevastian Schneider
was a direct settler who lived a long time and whom I still remember as a very old man.
His house still had a thatched roof and a decidedly old-fashioned look compared with
his more successful neighbors who had already renovated their dwellings, keeping the
Page 52 typical walls and layout of the buildings, but significantly improving their looks and
increasing their dimensions. In the large room the dry little old man roamed around,
said something very tender to our mother and to us, but in such a Swabian German,
that even if we had known more German, we would not have understood him. In the
bedroom there stood of course high wooden beds, with such mountains of down covers
that they almost reached the ceiling, but they were folded with wonderful precision. All
furniture was either the original one from Swabia or fashioned from the old designs, and
in all the houses of the settlers one could find nothing else. A great impression was left
with me by the huge Grandfather clock, which ticked in a special way: simultaneously
and softly and loudly. You will be surprised, my children, but this clock also rang in my
soul, and I became calm only when standing clocks appeared in my own study, but they
did not tick the same and in their ornamental cases were cupolas, but they served as a
memory of my other grandfather.
The following funny thing occurred to our great-grandfather Sevastian Schnaider,***
which characterized the war of that time and its ‘Horror’. Kronental was 40 versts (ca 20
miles) from Sevastopol, but during all of the 11 months which was as long as that war
lasted, Kronental did not hear or see anything of it.
This situation finally seemed
unendurable to our great-grandfather and thus one morning in the summer he got on his
horse and rode, as he was, that is, in his shirt and slippers on his bare feet, to look at
‘the war’ a little more closely. I do not know how much closer he rode to ‘the war’, but
finally he met an English mounted patrol who took him prisoner.
After peace was
proclaimed, he returned home very satisfied with everything that he experienced during
his imprisonment. This was in 1884.
Sevastian Schnaider had two sons. One, Ivan, was in charge of the estate of an
English physician, Hyman, who stayed in the Crimea after the Sevastopol War, married
a German woman and bought the Kojash estate. But the Englishman did not endure for
very long and left behind as a memory of his stay rather large vineyards, a good wine
cellar right on the road along which he had planted acacias and wallnuts all along his
Page 53 property. The nuts froze in the winter of the year 1879, but the acacias survived and
made all the passers-by happy, but none of us followed the example of the Englishman.
The other son, Nikolai Sevastianovich stayed in Kronental and watched over his
Wirtschaft (this was the name of his parcel of land, 60 or 30 desjatins – 162 or 81
acres). To the end of his days he lived in his old house, though he improved it, went to
the cellar himself in order to bring the guest some wine grown in Kronental, somewhat
sour, traveled in the so-called ”Dilizhan” without springs, later in an open cart, very
much loved Provencal butter from a can and sardines, which he offered to special
guests. Was he so stingy? O no, he was a typical German settler and left to his
children five thousand (13,500 acres) desjatins of land, a house in the town, two wellsituated farmsteads, and probably much money in the bank.
But the sardines were a
delicacy for him. My German grandfather and grandmother were not brilliant people.
They were honest, modest, hard-working, having begun with nothing, did not aspire to
take the light from the sky and probably hoped only to lift and have stand on their own
feet their many-membered family, which they achieved. According to Mother’s stories
Grandfather enjoyed life and socializing, and was not burdened by life’s blows. But
these blows undoubtedly caused much skepticism and he liked to say: “Only that which
I ate is mine.” Evidently more than once in his life, possessions which he had already
thought were his, disappeared – but he still did not mourn them. Nevertheless he was
able to obtain an important position in a town which was strange to him. Mother told
that his great friend was the old man Fein –already a very wealthy man at that time.
When he came to Simferopol, he stayed with Grandfather. One of these visits left a
sharp memory in Mother. Old man Fein once again was buying one of his endless
estates. And so, a few days before his arrival a heavily loaded truck arrived in the
Schlee’s yard, and heavy sacks were carried from it. The workers emptied the sacks
onto the floor of the guest house, and soon there lay a whole mountain of silver rubles. “
Ferdinand and I,” said Mother, “had to build small columns of rubles so that they could
be counted and we simply cried.” The money lay around for quite a while, probably in
the basement or was buried and covered with the green color of ferric oxide. And I
involuntarily remember that in the pages of “Notes from a Decembrist”, Count Volkonsky
Page 54 says at one point: “sold his land in the South of Russia to the settler Fein for seventy
kopeks per desjatina. Yes, yes, kopeks!” It is true that this probably happened earlier,
but the prices could not have risen significantly – and how many desjatins of wonderful
land lay in the guesthouse of a small German settler. I think that in those times the
relation between the small worth of land in the half-empty South and the value of labor
lies the explanation of “getting rich” of our family.
Already in 1879 my father paid 29
thousand rubles for Agach-Eli which measured 830 desjatins (2241 thousand acres) –
of course with silver.
Matvei Ivanovich died being not very old, and Grandmother outlived him for several
years. She died of cancer, when I was about 10 years old, and I clearly remember this
kind old woman, of medium height with a rather full face and gray hair which always
was covered with a bonnet, either white or black . Unfortunately the fact that we did not
speak German prevented our relationship with Grandmother from being more lively
and close. In any case, we always were happy to go to see her, and knew that in
addition to a warm welcome, during holidays we would receive a tasty piece of cake and
a cup of equally tasty coffee. At Grandmother’s house coffee was brewed in a coffee
pot, which looked like a small samovar, and therefore always was hot.
I do not
remember such coffee pots in other houses, but all of her daughters also acquired the
same coffee pots and therefore their coffee also always was hot and they even tried to
outdo each other in this matter.
And to drink coffee at Grandmother’s on Sunday
remained a family custom and did not disappear after her death but was transferred to
Aunt Julia who went to live in the house where Grandmother lived, and one could meet
members of the Schlee family in the afternoons at the coffee hour there. I do not think
that Grandmother was the spiritual or intellectual center of the family; this role had been
taken over after Grandfather’s death by the two older sons. And this role was not very
easy. There were eight children in the family, the youngest was 6 or 8 years old at the
time of his death, and the funds were not large. I think that besides the estate, which
was not large, and the house, there was also some money, otherwise one could not
understand how the daughters could have been given their dowries. In my opinion,
Page 55 Grandfather decided very wisely: at their wedding, each daughter was to receive 5
thousand, the estate was not to be sold or divided until that moment when the youngest
has completed his education. All this was accomplished without special internal friction
(even though there was some grumbling) and the whole family stood on its feet and
became stronger.
The Schlee Family
The oldest son, Ferdinand Matveevich was born probably in the year 1842. He
studied at the high school and lived in the same boarding school where the brothers
Nalbandov also lived and he also did not get far with his studies. It was decided to send
him to an apprenticeship on the Fein estate, and there could not have been a better
outcome. During the visit of F.M. at Fein’s, the following episode occurred, as told by
Mama. At some time F.M. wrote Father a letter, in which he asked him to send him new
pants, among other things, and added: ‘I do not, after all, have to buy myself pants with
my hard-earned money’. Father only said: “his money is evidently hard-earned money,
which mine evidently is not”, but sent him new pants anyway.
In our family the
difference between ‘hard-earned’ or ‘not hard-earned’ money lived for a long time. A
person who was not stupid, F.M. performed perfectly and always was an outstanding
and intelligent boss. After his training he remained there to work and later bought an
estate –Golgary- about 15 versts (ca 7 miles) from Simferopol in the direction toward
Sarabuz. For many years he lived in the village without interruption, managed the
business very well, acquired still another estate -Gebotark- near Saki, bought their
father’s house from the other remaining heirs, and, tearing down all buildings except the
apartment of his mother and Aunt Julia, built a very large and comfortable house (in the
year 1892). From that time on he lived in town as a very wealthy man. Lively and
sociable, getting along wonderfully with the workers, his greatest pride was a whole
colony of houses which he had built for the workers who permanently worked for his
family; for many years he was the district and land governors’ representative
and
enjoyed general respect. He died on June 17, of the year 1904 and was buried on his
Page 56 estate. A year ago I met his son Lenja here, and he told me with deep bitterness that in
1920 those same Golgary workers threw all the bones of all members of the Schlee
family buried in Golgary out from their graves. Lenja was justified in his indignation:
neither F.M. nor even less his children deserved such an outrage.
F.M. was married two times. His first wife was his sister-in-law, Anna Petrovna
Schnaider, her father was Petr Petrovich. She died young from consumption. They had
five children. They all were not bright and in our large family served as an example
against marriages between close relatives. Only the oldest son and the last daughter
lived to old age, the three remaining ones died young of tuberculosis.
1.The oldest son, Konstantin, was born in the year 1865.
His education led to
nothing, and for many years he worked on his father’s estate, and finally his father put
Gebotark under his management. He looked sickly and feeble, he turned out to be very
steady, was a great lady’s man and arranged his material interests brilliantly. After the
death of his father he received a part of Gebotark which at that time changed from a
boring and shabby desert estate and, due to the extraction of artesian wells and its
nearness to the resort Saki, into a gorgeous, easily approachable estate with wonderful
gardens.
Following the Schlee example, Kostja bought a large property on the
Lazarevsky Street and Gubernatovsky corner in Simferopol, built a very large threestory (at that time a rarity) house there and began to live primarily in town. In the year
1920 he remained in S.; even though he had never taken part or was interested in
politics, he nevertheless was arrested – when, I do not know. His daughter Natasha
writes me: “he was imprisoned for a long time; he looked terrible: he was almost totally
blind, ill, we begged for a visit with him, but he could say almost nothing – through a
large partition and a crowd of guards, and most importantly, he cried continuously”.
Following much effort by the family, he was sent back to Cherdyn, but never arrived
there: on the way during one of the overnight stays, probably in an attic, he fell from
there and died from a brain hemorrhage in the year 1930.” He had been married to
Juritzina, whose first husband was Shebchenko; she died in 1937. 1.Their daughter
Page 57 Raisa was born in 1889, was married to Gregor Panekyn (he died in 1942). Their son
Pavel was born in 1913, spent his military service in the Far East in 1938 and remained
there. Raisa died in 1914 in childbirth. 2. Daughter Nadezhda was born in 1893 and
was killed in Evpatoria in 1920. She was married to the law student and officer of the
White Army, Grishin; he died of typhus in 1918. In 1914 a son, Aleksander was born,
studied in Leningrad and was planning to be a captain of the Marine but was drafted
during the last year of study. In 1918 a daughter, Nona was born – a chemical engineer
in Almat; she married a senior student Boris Bitnokov (in 1940); in 1941 they had a
daughter, Svetlana. After her death, Nadja’s children went to their grandfather’s family,
K.F. 3. A son, Dimitry who was born in 1895 also was killed in Evpatoria in 1920. 4.
Daughter Natasha was born in 1897; her first husband, the student Nikolai Choblovski
was killed in Evpatoria in 1920. Her second husband, Ivan Borisenko, a bookkeeper,
died in 1934.
Natasha has two children: daughter Galina, born in 1923 and son,
Anatoly, born in 1927; they moved to Germany and live in a refugee camp.
2. The daughter Wilhelmina, was a very pleasant, quiet and silent young girl,
learned badly, but had a healthy natural brain. She married her brother-in-law Wendelin
Nikolajevich Schnaider, the son of Nikolai Petrovich Sch. - the brother of the mother of
Wilhelmina – Anna. It seemed the second marriage of relatives should not have brought
anything positive, even more so because Mina herself also died of tuberculosis. They
had three children – and all of them were totally good and good-looking people. The
oldest daughter Olga married Doctor Strashinin and lived somewhere near Novgorod in
the Volynsky area. Natalia was very beautiful, an especially healthy young girl. During
the Revolution she fell in love with Filippenko, a singer, who at that time served in the
Volunteer Army, and emigrated with him. In 1921 she died in Berlin, poisoned by gas,
probably an unfortunate accident. The youngest son, Vladimir (Vova) emigrated as a
very young boy, for a while he lived in Munich and enjoyed the great patronage of the
somewhat well-known Dr. Scheibner-Richter. Then he moved to Serbia, where he lived
till the year ‘42.
He again moved to Germany became a chauffeur for the Tada
organization and is still working there now. On April 27 1952 Vova and his family came
Page 58 to America. He had married the Russian Ekaterina Nikolaevna Klenrukova, and on May
15 of the year 1944 they had a son, Aleksander, on May 26 1946 a son, Georgij, and
later a daughter, Olga.
3. Robert, about three years older than I, was killed by an axe.
4. Viktor was one year older than I, was in the same class with me, but left already
after the second year. Later he lived with his father in the village and died at the age of
fourteen evidently from tuberculosis of the brain.
5. Evgeniya was the same age as I and became ill with childhood paralysis at the
same time as I did. With her, the sickness played an even more horrible joke than with
me. She had a partially paralyzed hand and leg, and even though she could use them,
it was only badly. But even worse was that she was not quite normal mentally, one
might say feeble-minded. She lived with Mina for a while, then with Kostja a while
longer; she always was useful around the house, and to all the difficulties of her joyless
life, only answered with such a sad and pitiful smile that one’s soul contracted and one
only wanted to do something to help this helpless and friendly girl. The end of her life
she spent with Kostja and his family and there she died in the year 1932, already after
his exile. I cite details about the death of Zhenja from a letter from her niece Natasha,
only to show how people died at that time.........”Aunt Zhenja lived in a small apartment
in the yard of the house on Domorukovsky Street, where all the others lived. Some
young girl, very unpleasant to look at, kept asking Aunt Zhenja to let her live with her in
a room. Despite our advice not to take her in, she took her in. After some time, she
suddenly started to scream terribly, and died in the morning, all convulsed. Later she
was taken for an autopsy, they came and questioned us with whom she was living and
whether she had been ill and why she died. For this reason we were suspicious that the
girl had done something to her. She left, having taken all of Aunt Zhenja’s things and
said that these things belonged to her because she had taken care of Aunt Zhenja.”
After the death of Anna Petrovna, Ferdinand Matveevitch was a widower not for
long and soon married a highschool friend of his sister Usunli – Nadezhda Izmailovna
Zaiusvetksky. This was the first Russian brought into our family. Very reticent and not
Page 59 speaking much, a wonderful musician, she did not fit very well into our noisy, gay and
friendly German family. She read much and was only slightly interested in domestic
affairs and the family and was not a helpmate to her husband. Therefore she always
stood somewhat coldly outside the family of her husband, even though their personal
relationship was excellent. She passionately loved flowers, knew how to take care of
them and had such beautiful palm trees and various indoor plants that one just had to
admire them. She especially established her “winter garden” when F.M. built his new
house and later added a huge dining room where the plants grew freely by the big light
from the windows, and in the corner stood a gorgeous piano on which N.I. played when
nobody except her husband, was listening. However much we begged her, she never
agreed to play when outsiders were present. She was herself rich, she owned 1000
desjatins (2,700 acres) near Chebatar, was more than modest in the expenses for
herself or the house, even miserly, as people in the family said about her. But after the
year 1905, if I am not mistaken, she sold her property to some neighboring farmers who
had been renting it, at such a low price that everybody simply said “Ach!!!” But she only
smiled her usual smile. After the death of her husband she bought for herself a property
near Simelz and built there, it was said, a beautiful dacha (I unfortunately did not see it)
and moved to live there permanently. After the Revolution she sold this dacha and
bought a very small house, where she lived with two young daughters. But even there
fate did not let her rest: as the wife of a grand landowner, she was taken to the Uralski
region and there she threw herself into the Ural river. Thus she passed through my life
as the most mysterious figure of our whole many-membered relatives.
Nadezhda
Izmailovna and F.M. had seven children.
1. Leonid was born in the year 1878, finished law school, served shortly as an
official of special trials in the Tavr. Government, but soon left and married Lidija
Nikolaevna Bondarenka and lived as a rich landowner in Chebatar during the summer
where he built a house, but did not have time to move into it; during the winter he lived
in the former apartment of his parents on Urecheski Street. They had two children:
Ismail and Alekseii.The entire family emigrated to Bulgaria, and from there to Germany.
2. Lidija – a modest and quiet young girl, studied well in high school, died from
Page 60 tuberculosis at 18 years of age. She was the contemporary of our Edi.
3. Nikolai was his father’s favorite and resembled him in his quiet manners. He
inherited (together with his brother Sergei) Golgary with its abundant equipment and old
household objects. He lived modestly but well together with his wife Evgenia Ivanovna
in the house which they bought on Gogolevsky Street. During the evacuation he was
not able to take his family along – they already had two daughters - and only saw them
again in the year 1942 when he came to the Crimea for a short time when he went there
for his job with the (German) occupying forces. Evgenia Ivanovna, who had been a
pleasant, chubby young lady, had turned into a very simple village woman during the 22
years when she lived with her daughters in Simelz (her family had lived there earlier).
This woman was taking water from the fountain, when A.A. Schlee, as the first one
getting to Simelz, happened to ask her whether she knew anything about the N.F.
Schlee family. He told us that it was difficult to recognize Evgenia Ivanovna in this
woman, even after he believed her that it was she herself. While he was in the Crimea,
N.F. returned to Golgary with his family (one of the daughters was already married) was
given one of the small houses there, which once had been built by his father for the
workers, got a horse, a cow, a bird, and began again his life in a small household. But
not for long. Once he evacuated again, his family did not want to accompany him and
remained in the Crimea. Now N.F. is in Germany again, living somewhere in a camp.
Having departed for the university, the other children were very small when I left, and
later Life did not lead us together again, and I scarcely know them.
4. Olga – finished high school and married Michail Alexandrovich Trigoni, an
aimless young man who died during the evacuation in Konstantinopol. They had three
children: Tatjana, born in 1909, Georgij – in 1912, and Irina – in 1914. Irina is now in
Germany . This has turned out to be not quite correct. Recently the granddaughter of
Ferd. Mat., Irina Trigoni, came to visit us. Small, roundish and talkative, she quickly
reminded me of her mother, Olga. She told us much about their fate in Russia and
much was different from what I wrote according to the words of Lena. It turns out that
Galgarski, the new owners, former workers of F.M., are not that bad at all. After the
Revolution, that is, after our flight, Nad.Izm. with Olga and Musja and their children
Page 61 moved to Golgor where they settled for a long time. From their former guard they
bought the small guard house, received 28 desetin (75.6 acres) of land, obtained a cow,
chickens and began to live with this household. When a kolkhoz was established in
Golgorach, their land was taken from them, but Olga joined the kolkhoz and became the
manager of the clothing department, also the secretary and bookkeeper. At first Musja
had fulfilled that role, but she turned out to be too honest and did not give the visiting
auditors any rations from the kolkhoz stores. Therefore she was exchanged for the
more compliant Olga. The appointed manager of the kolkhoz was some German from a
neighboring colony, according to Irina, a very decent person, and the kolkhoz was a
success as long as he was managing it. Nad. Izm. was particularly friendly with him,
and when he left and went back to his colony, she kept up a very friendly relationship
with his whole family, and lived with them for a long time. When the Germans began to
be deported to Siberia, she said to her daughters that now her friends were doing badly
and she needed to help them and that she would go with them to Siberia. At that time
she was already 70 years old! And she really left all her relatives and went to Siberia
with a family which was not at all related to her. There they settled down together, but
evidently she was not strong enough: she went to town for some business, away from
where they had been living, and later, on the banks of the river which she was
supposed to cross, they found her dress and overcoat.
There was no looting of F.M.’s grave by the administration, as had often been the
case during the Revolution – the looting of graves of ‘class enemies’ – but there was the
usual hooliganism by 2-3 people, organized by F.M.’s former blacksmith and some
others. They were seeking gold, which, according to rumors, had been placed in the
grave of the dead estate owner. The looting was done at night, and the looters, in their
hurry, forgot their tools, by which they were later recognized – of course without any
unpleasant consequences for them. But this portrait still does not give a reason for the
pessemistic conclusion by Leni: “I became disgusted with the Russian people after this
and never want to return to Russia,” she told me during our only meeting in Munich.
Irina’s mother, Olga and another one of her, that is, Irina’s sister and daughter also
came to Germany, but found themselves in the zone which was occupied by the
Page 62 Russians.
Irina rushed to find them, went into the Russian zone, but did not find
anybody: they were among the many Russians whom the Bolsheviks sent back,
probably to Siberia. The same things threatened to happen to Irina, but she managed
to flee to the American zone on time. We listened to her story with tremendous sorrow.
How many such stories we had already had to hear, and every time I was impressed by
the strength, energy and perseverance of these truly exceptional people.
5. Marija – Musja – also finished highschool, married a doctor Kabosev, a very wellknown specialist and professor of eye diseases at the Odessa University. My brother
Serjezha spoke of him very positively. In the year 1908 a son, Vadim, was born to
them, whose fate I do not know. The Kabosevs separated and Musja lived with her
mother in Simelz.
6. Sergei. This was a sickly unlucky person. His education ended with nothing. He
refused his military obligation during the war and totally against all expectations and
without any clear reason shot himself.
7. Nina – the last, was a somewhat miniature, fragile doll and has thus remained in
my memory. Later I did not see her. During the emigration she married the brother of
Lid. Nik., Michail Nik. Bonderenka. In the year 1926 a daughter, Galina was born to
them. They live in Plovdiv, Bulgaria.
2. The daughter, Varvara Matveevna – see page 61 - “my mother”.
3. Franz Matveevich was the pride and joy of the Schlee family. He was the first
one, not only in the family but in the German settler society of Simferopol, who finished
university (in the law department). Together with his older brother Ferdinand he was
authorized to lead the family’s affairs, and his word was law not only for his brothers and
sisters, but also for his mother. And he truly was an interesting person.
We, the
children, feared him. He was tall, thin, with a longish, skinny dark little beard, always
reserved and he spoke little; he had something of a Lutheran way about him and with
that he starkly differed from his remaining brothers and sisters. He undoubtedly was
the most intelligent, smart and educated one in the whole family and this impressed and
Page 63 affected them. But besides all that, he was a person of deep honesty and decency,
which all of those who knew him acknowledged. Undoubtedly he also had more sense
for aesthetics than the others. Mother always told with great joy about the wonderful
bouquets Franz brought home after his Sunday walks in the meadows. He was the first
to introduce beautiful furniture and finishing touches when the members of the family
began to get rich and to acquire houses. – And that same Franz caused the family the
biggest moral shock!
After finishing the university, he obtained the position of
arbitration judge in Yalta, and for many years was elected almost unanimously, that is,
he enjoyed a great reputation and great love from the inhabitants. He did not come to
Simferopol very often, and his visits were a celebration for the whole family. As before,
Franz’s authority was great. But each aesthetic can make a mistake – and I want to tell
you a funny incident. During one of these visits Franz said that he knows the recipe for
a wonderful pomade. And I remember that one morning they brought Franz a whole
mountain of wonderful, white as snow pig lard and our most important Uncle Franz
began to add some sweet-smelling spices, and his sisters, that is our mother and her
sisters, had to rub the lard together with the spices untill their hands were exhausted.
Finally everything was divided into little bottles, and Uncle Franz left. And we had our
heads smeared with the mess until our mothers finally convinced themselves that this
pomade was only dirtying our heads. What was done with the ruined lard by our thrifty
housewives – I do not know. Today we probably would have thrown it out despite its
“aroma”. Tempera mutantur!
So Uncle Franz continued his brilliant career in Yalta and slowly everyone became
used to the idea that he would remain a bachelor – he already was 36-37 years old. But
suddenly some murmurs began in our family, the adults whispered a lot and shook their
shoulders. It turns out that our serious, sensible Franz lost his head, and had fallen in
love with a young, too young for him, but truly good Jewess, who had come to Yalta
with some Jewish family either as a nanny or something even simpler, and he decided
to marry her. Who she was, from where, what her name was – we never found out.
She was brought to Simferopol quite secretly, lived for a few days in the house on
Page 64 Grechesky Street – Grandmother was no longer alive, - she was christened, - and there
a new aunt appeared for us: Ernestina Lvovna Schlee.
There was no celebratory
wedding, or else it was not held in Simferopol – and for a long time the visits of Uncle
Franz ceased. The situation within the family became complicated. The idol of the
family had presented it with a difficult problem. The basic and sincere liberalism of the
family did not permit open indignation, especially against a beloved and respected
brother, but the insurmountable, hereditarily absorbed inner feelings could not make
peace with the introduction of a Jewess from whom, more instinctively than realistically,
nothing was expected, into the close-knit family, and nothing positive was expected to
result. But nothing could be done – one had to make peace with the fact, but Franz’s
former charm was destroyed.
occurred.
While the new family lived in Yalta, no difficulties
The adolescents, the youngest brother Matveii, my sister, the young
Schnaiders more easily found a common language with the aunt during the infrequent
visits, the older people kept themselves on the sidelines. Two children were born, the
salary of a judge was not very high, the work of some of these judges was even
abolished. F.M. decided to leave his job and moved to Simferopol, where the position
of a notary public had become available. And in this position he occupied a very special
place and enjoyed great popularity and trust. Soon it became the common opinion that
if a deal had been arranged by Notary Schlee, it was impeccable from a judicial as well
a moral point of view and his filings caused no disputes even from the most respected,
older notaries; he earned a lot of money. In one word, everything would have been
excellent, if it had not been for his wife. One has to be objective. Ernestina Lvovna was
not a bad person. She was smart enough that, evidently not having received any
education or upbringing, she behaved in society in such a manner, that nobody noticed
this. She was a good housekeeper, her house (Franz M. soon bought a mid-size
house with a large garden on Guvernsky Street) and beautiful carved furniture, ordered
from the best furniture maker of that time, Chernetenk, shone with cleanliness; she
herself became even prettier with age, knew how to dress well, and in the brilliant resort
Yalta had become used to living gaily. In the modest Schlee family she was bored, and
she felt that the family had not longed for such a wife for their idol. She also did not
Page 65 trouble to hide all these feelings – and bit by bit the family of F.M. and he himself
became more and more distant from the remaining family. When the brothers wanted
to discuss something with him, they went to his office, and soon the relations became
such that the relatives stopped coming to F.M.’s house, nor did he come to theirs.
There was no outward quarrel, but the beloved brother was lost. But worse was yet to
come.
Again I have to excuse myself for telling bad things about close and even
already dead people. But I want to give you a history of our family without large gaps,
and I see great human-psychological value in what I want to tell you. Basically,
everything happened as it should have happened.
Still young and full of life, the
Jewess existed with her already old, formerly so interesting, husband, and got herself a
friend, a young attorney, the Armenian Burnazov. Basically one could not say anything
bad about him. He was a typical provincial attorney, tall, good-looking with a dark and
somehow underscored look, who earned not much, spoke somehow very loudly and
waved about with his hands too boisterously. It is impossible to hide anything in the
provinces. Everything was clear, and became even clearer when the Schlee family
went abroad for the summer accompanied by Burnazov. This was a new, hefty blow for
our family. It must be said that family purity was a given in all the houses of the older
generation – and again the blow came from F.M. Everyone had already forgotten that
he had brought all this on himself with his imprudent marriage – everyone was hurt for
Franz. And only he himself did not see and understand and walked around town with
the same equanimity, with his head held high, and without a drop of confusion they
walked into a concert or a theater as a threesome, and all of us pretended that we did
not notice this. I have often asked myself what he truly felt and from where he obtained
the strength to endure this situation so calmly and long – and I could not find an answer.
Sometimes I felt that this was the indifference of a tired old man. But now I am myself
an old man tired of living, but still cannot understand him. Perhaps an ancient wisdom
spoke to him: pay for your mistakes without complaining. That may be so, but it was a
harsh punishment. And here is what is interesting. Of course the whole of Simferopol
society saw what is going on. But neither Franz’ prestige nor his great popularity as an
official and as a human being suffered. People clearly felt the gravity of his situation
Page 66 and commiserated with his lot. Our society was after all not too bad! These Schlees
had two children: a daughter Emma who married the son of the lawyer Wulf, and a son
Nikolai.
He was a musician and conductor, and married a Jewess from Yalta,
Nadezhda Buchstab.
Nikolai somewhat mysteriously perished somewhere in the
mountains during the Revolution. I will not undertake to decide about the inclination of
these half-Jews toward Jews is happenstance or in their character.
4. Tsetzilija Matveena was a happy and life-loving being, she finished high school,
played the piano not badly, and very soon married a young officer in the Lithuanian
Regiment which was stationed in Simferopol, Witold Dionlebevitch Karachevsky-Wolk.
He was a typical representative of the small, totally poverty-stricken Polish aristocracy
with all its good and bad characteristics.
He was very proud of his nobility and
described to us in detail the difference between Karachevsky-Wolk and no Wolk. And
as an officer he was typically provincial, having stopped with what he had been taught in
the barracks, and carrying his professional load sincerely but without any interest in his
work. Against the grayish background of the Schlee family, he was nevertheless a lively
moth, whose worth was soon established as one who not only did not disturb, but
instead enlived many family gatherings and evenings. He arranged dances, was the
first one to yell “Hurra”, was the first to clap his hands, in other words, “enlivened the
crowd”, as could even be expected from a young officer. He did not get far in his
service and retired with an increased salary and the rank of colonel or lieutenantcolonel. But in the end, his rank and his whole life were fashioned for him by his wife.
She was the only “noble woman” in the family, as her brothers teasingly called her, but
also the poorest in the family. Her dowry went to ‘the reverse’****, and it was even then
difficult to live on an officer’s salary, and only with the help of her mother and the whole
family could Ts. Mat. make ends meet. But she accomplished this astoundingly well.
Several years after her marriage they renovated the small house standing on
Grechesky Street, finally demolished the blinking tavern sign which for a long time had
been a dirty stain on the house, and a clean, pleasant apartment appeared. During that
time they were free from ‘the reverse’, and for that money the Karachevskys furnished
Page 67 the apartment in which they spent their whole lives and in which both died. Everything
was simple and cheap. It was not like it happened later with her brothers – expensive
furniture, but everything was done with such care and love, each detail was so
thoughtfully done, that everybody who came there felt well and comfortable. Aunt Tsilija
herself was an even-tempered person and usually in a good mood.
She was not
ashamed of her “poverty”, did not try to ignore the difference in the means between her
family and the rest of her remaining family, gave what she could, but did this so simply
and kindly that nobody even noticed the difference. Probably precisely because of this
and because, after the death of Grandmother, she alone stayed in the old Schlee adobe
(before the new house of Ferd. Mat. was built) her apartment remained the center
where the members of the family met most often.
Whether the brothers or sisters-in-
law came to town, whenever they had a free evening, they went “down”, as the family
called Grecheskaja Street to the little house. All of us went there and did not wonder
whether we would arrive at tea time or dinner. When this happened, we just ate and
drank without ceremony and in the same way without ceremony Aunt Tsetzilija
accepted everything that was brought to her by her brothers and sisters. But she
never humbled herself by asking, and I never heard that she ever asked for anything
from anybody. Over the years she managed to save a little money, and the income
from this was helpful to her. But despite this, when she died –her husband had died
much earlier – only pennies were left for the children, and their care was taken on by
Aunt Masha. TS. M. died after a long and painful illness – I think cancer, but Aunt
Masha never wanted to tell me this outright – a few days after the birth of our Katjusha.
The Karachevsky’s had three children. The oldest son, Witold, died of diphtheria at
age 6. He was the same age as our Edja. The second son, Vladimir turned out to be
unsuccessful. He finished high school, and the university in Moscow, but war prevented
him from further studies. He married (in 1908) Margarita Michailovna Weber. After our
flight he returned to Simferopol, and occupied some sort of office and helped Aunt
Masha. They had a daughter Elena who married Georgi Arangel. He was arrested (in
1937?) and disappeared. The third son, Aleksander, became an orphan when he was
Page 68 still in high school, and from then on lived with Aunt Masha. He was a kind, tender
child, very reserved and modest. We became very close to him when he finished
university – or when he was still a student – I do not remember. He resigned from an
important position in Simferopol and became an officer. He was in love with his sisterin-law, Vera Shembelev and I remember the tender smile with which he showed us a
thin, small gold ring and one more trifle which he wanted to present to her. I see before
me Aunt Tsetsiliya and the items worth only pennies which shone with the beauty of the
love which she put into them. But poor Shurik did not live with his wife very long – he
was killed in 1919 in Kertsch by the Reds who attacked the town from Kamenolomen.
5. Ivan Matveevich and his family always somehow stood removed from the others.
From his youth on, he lived in the village of Ferd. Mat. in Golgarch, and then for many
years managed Chebatark. There he married the daughter of a small landowner-settler,
Luiza Jakovlevna Abt. This marriage further estranged the brother who anyway visited
only occasionally. Luiza Jakovlena was a typical German girl-settler, but without the
one thing that characterized these girls – health. She was sick her whole life with some
undefined illnesses, which did not prevent her, however, from living to a ripe old age, so
that she probably was only neurasthenic. Having grown up in the steppe, and not pretty
but somehow angular physically, and spiritually also – she felt badly in the gay,
boisterous family of her husband, who always spoke only Russian, and she always sat
alone in a corner bored and almost frightened. Ivan Matveevich was a merry, social
person, played the fortepiano not badly (probably self-taught), and there never were
serious disagreements between him and the remainder of the family – but a close
relationship never developed even when, many years later, I.M. bought a house on the
Pushkinsky and (I believe) Tovchianobsky Street opposite the Seminary Garden, and
he moved there to live in town permanently. I.M.’s family always was the most German
and they only spoke German among themselves. She also leaned more toward the
mother than the father.
1. The daughter, Anna, was born March 16. 1881. She married Robert Franzovich
Page 69 Lerich, the outstanding businessman and director of the Simferopol City Bank (his sister
Luiza married my cousin, Stepja). They had 3 children: Rudolf, born 8. 28, 1903,
musician and conductor, Valentin, 12.21. 1907, businessman, and Irina, born 4.4.1914,
whose married name was Riefenstal. All were married and had children. In the year
1920 the Lerich family remained in Simferopol, but could not tolerate it very long. Since
the father Lerich was born in Chechoslovakia, even before 1920, Lerich obtained a
Chechoslovakian passport and around the year 1927 left together with his family for
Chechoslovakia and from there to Germany, where the whole family has lived since that
time. R.F. Lerich died in the year 1950.
2. The son, Eduard was born 6.21.84. I hardly knew him. Once in the summer I
sailed on a ship from Odessa to the Crimea. Suddenly a tall young man approached
me, very elegant and said: “permit me to introduce myself – I am your cousin.” That
was Edja, returning home from abroad. I do not know very well why, but he studied
medicine first in Munich, then in Naples, then, I think, in Bologna. Then he married a
Russian – she ended up committing suicide in Munich. From this marriage he had a
son, Georgi (born 6.3. 1911). We met again in Simferopol, where he returned with his
second wife from Krakow. Now we became closer, and I have the very best memories
of him. From his second marriage he had a son, Sergei (born August 1917). Edja
remained in the Crimea and in 1922 he died having been infected with typhus.
3. Valentina, born 11.14.1886, (died in the year 1946), was a very merry, energetic,
though nervous, young girl and a very nice person. Unfortunately her fate turned out to
be unhappy. She also lived for a long time abroad with her brother and first husband
Zhadavski; they lived poorly, and if I am not mistaken, Zh. also killed himself. After his
death, Valja married a Jew, a teacher in the Simferopol Commercial Institute, and later
director of the Sevastopol Commercial Institute, Jos.Nik. Arel. They remained in the
Crimea, at first he somehow succeeded during that first administration, later he and his
wife sat in prison for a long time. During the last occupation of the Crimea by the
Germans, Valja returned from somewhere in the Caucasus, but did not say one word
about the fate of her husband. I was only recently informed that he remained alive and
hid (as a Jew) in some village in the guise of a worker. I did not know him well, but he
Page 70 made a good impression.
4. and 5. The two last children, Viktor (born 1.27.93) and Marija (Musja) born 3.23
96) I hardly knew at all. Viktor committed suicide. Musja married a Jew, Kanzler, if my
memory serves me right.
After rereading this page, I noted something unpleasant and incompletely expressed
in my emphasized words, even two times: ‘married a Jew’. As if this were some sort of
crime in my eyes. Of course this is not so, but it is better if I explain myself in this
complicated situation. When my youngest brother Edja was still very young, he courted
a young Jewess, Fany Schektman. He went to study abroad, as she also did, they met
somewhere and for a while this friendship threatened to lead to marriage. I calmy say
‘threatened’ and this prospect did not please anyone in our whole family. And many
years later, when Edja had already been married for a long time, I happened to travel to
Karlsbad with Alek. Matv. Schlee and his constant companion in his yearly travels to
Karlsbad, Schektman, Fany’s father. He was a bread merchant, a very pleasant decent
man, owned a house in which Edja and I lived for some time. And I remember that the
two of us had breakfast with Schektman in Berlin and the talk turned to that subject. He
told me that his daughter had married a Jew from Simferopol, Keilin, and that he was
very pleased about this. “Do not think that it was only your family which was concerned
about this at that time,” the clever old man said to me suddenly. “For us it would have
been the same misfortune if they had married then, as it would have been for your
family, in spite of the differences in the circumstances of our families, which I
understand quite well. Do not think it is fortunate for us when one says: ‘she married a
Christian,’ said Schektman. And of course he was right. The question is not who was
disparaged or made happy.
The problem is the age-old chasm which divides the
Jewish and Christian worlds even without considering the religious aspects.
If the
question were only about religion, then everything would be simpler, because for whom
of our generation did religion play a large role? Look at our family – all kinds of religions
are represented, and all of us are equally indifferent to these differences. But under the
influence of the Jewish and Christian religions the whole inner outlook of the Christian
and Jew has developed all their inconsciously absorbed philosophy – and cannot coPage 71 exist in the closeness of a marriage. I could cite many examples and evidences, but
that is boring. I will only say that the marriages of two of Ivan Matveevich’s daughters to
Jews were not happy. I do not know them well, only that both are educated people, and
I have heard nothing negative. As I have already said, the I.M. family was the most
German, and if one can speak of anything aristocratic in the family of a baker, the most
democratic of all our families, and thus the combination of these two traits made that
internationalism which erased the distinction between Jew and non-Jew more easily.
And this is what it is all about.
6. Marija Matveevna. Our Aunt Masha was a rare soul of a person. Silent and
reserved, looking almost severe, she had a soft and kind soul and enjoyed everyone’s
respect.
She grew up under the unquestionable influence of her brother Franz.
Whether it was the healthy instinct of a worker’s family or a sober German thought
process, but something kept the young Schlees from becoming too close with national
freedom groups of which many representatives came from the South or lived in the
Crimea. But the radical views of these groups undoubtedly were known and were
partially endorsed by the more educated side of the family. And outwardly Aunt Masha
kept her student-time views of those times throughout her whole life, but without the
frequent irresoluteness and untidiness of those young radicals, who had neither the time
nor the interest to see to their appearance. Having finished highschool, Aunt Masha
traveled to Petersburg, then to Bern and there finished her medical studies. Unless I
am incorrect, she belonged to the first women graduates who were allowed to study
medicine abroad, a right which had just then be granted to Russian women. Soon after
her graduation, the Simferopol Council decided to open an ambulatory and first aid
station in Kronental (the hospital was built later) and nothing was more natural than that
the granddaughter of Sevastian Schnaider obtained that position. The Council rented
two or three rooms for her; she lived in one, the other one contained the pharmacy and
the reception, the waiting room was outside or in the house of the owners. However
primitive all this was, it was truly a good deed for the surrounding inhabitants. This was
the third first aid station in the district. Previously, there had been one doctor in the
Page 72 whole district – Vysoginsky, who lived in Simferopol and took care of the district. I
vividly remember how in the courtyard of Agach-Eli a simple, light carriage arrived with
bells on the front, which at that time were necessary, and from the carriage stepped
dusty or spattered with mud, depending on the season, the little old Vysoginsky. In the
neighboring Tatar village the news of his arrival spread immediately. An elder walked
through the village with a bell and informed the inhabitants of the arrival of the doctor.
The sick came to him, received their medications from the traveling pharmacy and then
had to wait for the next visit. Of course the doctor visited the seriously ill in their homes.
When there were three first aid stations, medical help became much more substantial,
primarily because each doctor traveled only through one third of the district and
secondly, because two of the doctors already lived in the district and it was closer to
come to them and the probability to find them at home was much greater than
previously. But of course it was difficult for the patients and for the doctor. The
ambulatory had to be open every day so that people who had come from afar on often
almost inpenetrable roads would not find that the doctor had gone to some other part of
his still very large district; but many times one could come on horseback and at least get
some advice or ask the doctors to come to them personally. To visit the seriously ill was
only possible after the closing of the ambulatory, but winter days were so short and the
roads so difficult, and the horses so slow, and the open carriages so uncomfortable.
Marija Matveevna knew what she had taken on and continued for 12 years. Of
course things improved with time. They built a hospital with 8-10 beds for her, there
were a male and female assistant, a manager for the pharmacy; she bought herself a
small closed carriage in which she at least did not get wet, and the district became
smaller. In Alma a permanent first aid station was established, taken care of by an
assistant. But the work was still difficult, and one needed much love for the work and
for people in order to endure it for so many years. Public medicine and our doctors
altogether comprise some of the most beautiful pages in the history of one person
helping another person and remains forever the pride of Russia and the Russian
doctors, and we had many such Marijas but seldom did they persevere as long and with
Page 73 such wonderful patience as did our Aunt Masha. She did not refuse to come during the
worst weather, drove during the night, several times she was thrown from her carriage –
but then she drove again. The Tatar population especially respected the fact that she
could heal their women who would never have consented to be seen by a male doctor,
but also among the other inhabitants, M.M. enjoyed deep respect and love. When she
left and began to practice as a physician in Simferopol, very many of her former patients
continued their treatment with her as private patients. During the last 3-4 years of the
public position the district granted M.M. a vacation of three months during the summer
and during that time she was replaced by a physician who was visiting in Bulganak.
M.M. herself, however, went to work in a mud-healing institution, Saki, about 25 versts
from Bulganak in the Tavrichesky District. This provided her with a significant addition
to her public salary (it was only 100 rubles, with an additional 50 for a maid, per month,
however with a free apartment, heat and electricity).
While still a doctor in Bulganak, she married F.O. Lustich. I think it was an old love,
stemming from M.M.’s trip to Petersburg before her trip to Switzerland.
Now fate
brought them together again: F.O. lived as a bachelor on his tiny estate, rather one may
call it a vineyard in Kertch, that is in M.M.’s medical district. After the marriage they
lived for 3 more years in Bulganak, and during that time we learned to treasure and
dearly love Aunt Masha’s husband. But finally, the public service became so tiring for
M.M. that she decided to leave and move to Simferopol and begin her private practice.
During the years of work, and especially working in Saki, M.M. saved some money –
she lived very modestly – the only things she spent money on were books – and with
this money Lustich bought a very small parcel of land on Petropavlovsky Square – if I
am not mistaken, there where once F.O.’s father had lived and on it built a medium size
but very comfortable house. It contained only six medium size rooms – the waiting
room, the private office, living room, dining room, bedroom and another small room
where later Shura Karachevski lived. Everything was light, simple and very clean.
Next to the house was a truly miniature garden. In the house it was so comfortable, the
hosts so friendly and simple that all of us who visited there have retained only the best
Page 74 and warmest memories of them. And we were there also because Aunt Masha treated
us all and especially all the numerous children in the family. I think that also as a
physician she was as modest as she was as a person. The huge public practice and
living in such a remote area had two consequences for Aunt Masha – she lost her fear
of all indispositions, she believed more in the strength of nature and felt she was only
helping it along with simple medications, such as castor oil, different types of salts. She
subscribed to Russian and German medical journals and books, and read them
intensively during the long evenings in the quiet Bulganak, but felt that she herself was
removed from life. When she moved to town she decided to refresh her knowledge and
moved to Petersburg to take courses by Ks. Elena Pavlovna. Little by little such a
practice developed that when something critical happened, M.M. came and prescribed
whatever was necessary. But when she felt that the disease developed into a fatally
serious one, she recommended to call in another doctor also.
If the disease was
chronic, the sick person became a patient of a specialist. In this way everything worked
out well and crystallized in future years. Of course the medical help was not the only
thing. Aunt Masha did not only represent a doctor, but also an endlessly kind and close
person, whom one could believe, and whose appearance alone brought, if not relief,
then at least a soothing of the spirit. If Aunt Masha began to ‘scold’, then everyone
knew that nothing serious was forthcoming. And since our family generally was in good
health, then in case of illness Aunt Masha would say: “it will go away” or “give him
castor oil, or quinine, or a hot compress – and all will be well.” In serious cases, Aunt
Masha was always present and close during times of grief.
became ill, Aunt Masha
operation.
When Grandmother
- at that time still a student, I believe – took her for an
When the youngest brother Matvei became ill with tuberculosis, she
managed to take a leave and went with him to a sanatorium somewhere in Bavaria for
several months so that he would not be alone. When the son of Aunt Tzili was dying of
diphtheria – she was with him, Aunt Julia died in her arms, Vitja Schlee died in Gomarch
– she was there. When our Sonja was one hair away from death during the birth of her
first child in Kojash, Aunt Masha did not leave their small house for days, when our
Katjusha was born during a difficult birth, she was there, and even though there was an
Page 75 additional doctor, Katja owes her life only to her: she was born half suffocated, and I
still see the special face of Aunt Masha how she tried to coax breath out of our little girl.
Three generations of our family were greatly in her debt. And not only as a physician.
She never caressed us, always was reserved, but never forgot even one of the children.
When I was in the third year of highschool, she went to Yalta for a few days – and
simply took me along, as if it were as simple as buying me an ice cream. A marvelously
kind, simple and sincere person!
Her husband, Ferdinand Osipovich Lustich was her equal. He also descended
from a settler family, but his forefathers came from Hungary, and his best friend,
Aleksander Matveevich jokingly simply called him a Hungarian earl, whose documents
were sealed up in the walls of the old Feodosian bridge on whose building his father
worked. The only joke consisted in the fact that the old Lustich worked on the bridge
as a simple stone mason, but in his family it was evident that it wanted to distance itself
from the settler origins, and this was viewed as being full of pride. The older brother of
Ferdinand, Wilgelm Osipovich Lustich, had a great reputation in Petersburg, where he
was a sworn attorney and for a long time was the representative of the Society of Sworn
Attorneys of the district of Petersburg. Ferdinand Osipovich was also in Petersburg, an
officer in the army, when the assassination of Emperor Aleksander II (March 1, 1881)
happened. He was close to the circle of free nationalists, even though he did not
actively take part at all in anything, when the wave of arrests began, a secret, hidden
typograph of the party was found in his possession. Despite this relatively small cause,
but because he was an officer, he was severely punished, and he sat for 8 years in Kar,
then in exile, and only the efforts of his brother, the well-known jurist, helped him to
return to the Crimea, first without the right to leave the small vineyard, which it seems
his brother had bought for him; after 1905 he received his rights back again. After
moving to Simferopol he was elected to the directorship of the Simf. Society District
Lending Bank, and after several years, again after his brother’s Wilgelm’s
recommendation, Director of the Bank of Simf., Russian division of foreign commerce.
Page 76 Our new uncle Fedja quickly became a beloved member of the family. This was a
very cultured and educated person, amazingly modest and reserved, always wellmeaning, straight and peaceful. By nature it seemed all the Lustichs were taciturn, and
even Marija Matveevna who spoke little herself, told with indignation how the brothers
Wilgelm and Ferdinand could walk side by side for an hour up and down the dining
room without speaking, in Lustich’s house in Kertch. During the years of his lonely
imprisonment, F.O. became accustomed to even more silence, and if, only rarely, he
spoke much, M.M. would say to him: “look, Fedja, your cheeks will hurt you, you talk so
much.” He was much older than we were, but that was hardly felt –we called him “ty”
(the familiar form) which was not the case with any other of our uncles – we called all of
them “wy”, (polite form). He loved books and bought and read many of them. In exile
he had learned the English language, and with a dictionary he could understand what
he read, but could not say a single word and did not understand the spoken word. He
loved music and owned a mechanical harmonica and many notes of serious music, on
which he spent a great deal of money. When his rights were returned to him, he
became a non-removable and very accurate member of the city Duma. The difficult
experiences of his youth were not noticeable in him. He did not weaken through the
loss of his political vision and the lost years, which he suffered without being seriously
guilty, and remained a free thinker in his political views, intelligent, far from radical.
Essentially, he kept away from any political entity, and even the revolution of the year
1917 did not provoke any particular ecstasy in him, and looked with just as much sorrow
as we did on the violent destruction all around us.
With time, the well-being of the Lustichs, increased, especially since F.O. became
director of the bank. But they did not alter their lives at all except that they began to go
abroad for summer vacations.
M.M. had stopped working long ago and no longer
served in Saki, but they bought a small automobile with which they drove away
Saturdays and Sundays to visit relatives or to their property in Kertch, their vineyard.
This same automobile hastened the end of Aunt Masha’s life. They finally decided to
build a new house instead of living in the old hut in which Uncle Fedja had spent many
Page 77 years of his exile. We discussed its plan for a long time, and chose a picture in one of
the journals, I believe ‘Jugend.’ It was a tall, medium-sized German house with a small
terrace on the upper floor. They asked me to help with the building, and I was glad to at
least pay back Aunt Masha a little bit for the invaluable help I had received from her all
my life. In the summer they went abroad, and when they returned, the house was ready
and waiting for the new owners. On a brilliant Saturday the three of us went to Kertch,
and a new chauffeur drove us for the first time. I right away did not like his driving, and
already after 5-6 versts we narrowly missed a ditch when giving way to an oncoming
vehicle.
Several more versts passed, and again an oncoming vehicle caused our
automobile to stand crosswise on the road, go into the ditch and flying out again,
stopped. There Aunt Masha protested and we returned to Simferopol. I was clear that
the new chauffer did not know how to drive. One or two weeks passed. The Lustichs
again decided to drive to Kertch, but I for some reason or other could not go, but went,
as usual, home. On that very same evening my sister called on the telephone to tell me
that there had been an accident and Aunt Masha was in the hospital. It turned out that
the chauffeur convinced Uncle Fedja by explaining his failure with some defect in the
steering wheel, and they kept him on. On the road they met a flock of sheep, and the
chauffeur stopped so sharply that the automobile – it was a small, short Peugeot –
overturned, turned around itself, and again returned to stand on its wheels as if nothing
had happened. The chauffeur, Uncle Fedja and Shura Karachevsky who was with
them, escaped with a scare, cuts and bruises, but Aunt Masha had both arms and both
legs broken. This passed almost without consequences, but the nervous shock did not
pass. From then on one could not recognize Aunt Masha. She no longer wanted to
hear anything about the automobile, no longer went to Kertch, I do not even know
whether she ever saw the new house.
In any case, nobody lived in it until the
Revolution came. The nervous shock, and perhaps something deeper, led Aunt Masha
to forget words, she could not always understand the meaning of words, became
distracted and forgetful. But physically she remained healthy. During the evacuation in
the year 1920 the Lustichs remained in Simferopol. For a while they kept living in their
house, our mother also lived with them after she had been removed from our house. At
Page 78 that time Fedja still wrote to me here. What happened later, I do not know. There was
talk that they had been expelled, but also that Uncle Fedja died soon, and a grandiose
funeral was organized for him, as one of the victims of the damned Tsar. Supposedly
Aunt Masha was helped by Volodja Karachevsky who had returned after 1920 to
Simferopol from Moscow. Now A.A.. Schlee told me that toward the end of her life Aunt
Masha was no longer normal, a Jewish neighbor took her in, and that is where she died.
Of course she died destitute.
7. Aleksander Matveevich was born 12.19.1859. I remember him as tall and thin,
who came for vacations from Sevastopol, where he finished 6th grade highschool. On
one of these visits he brought me a small ship, being about 10.5 inches long, but made
with much artistry and love. It was a three-dimensional war brig with much rigging, rope
stairs, many pulleys and smaller boats, cannons which looked out of the port holes. I
carefully guarded this present, for many years it stood on a special stand on Father’s
dresser, and only during the renovation of the old house in 1896 did the little ship
disappear from my memory. For a long time Uncle Sasha also disappeared from my
memory because, having stopped his high school education,
he turned into an
agriculturist and for a long time went to the estate of his brother Ferdinand, first to
Golchar, and later to the place of Ivan Matveevich as manager of Chebotark. During all
that time I probably saw him only seldom, since my memory has not kept anything
about him. Then A.M. again began to visit amazingly often during one year in our
Agach-Eli, where formerly I never remembered seeing him. The explanation for this
was that during that summer my sister was being visited by a friend from the boarding
school in Odessa. The young lady was Olga Onufrievna Utochkina, even then a little bit
too large, light complexioned, a Russian braid and merry gray eyes, beautiful with a true
Russian beauty. In the fall of 1887 they married and lived, again visiting only rarely, in
Chebotark.
But soon the moment came when the youngest son Matvei finished
university and when in accordance with his father’s will, Chuik could be sold. During a
family gathering it was decided to cede it to Al. Matveevich, that is all the remaining
brothers and sisters had already been standing on their own feet for a long time, and
Page 79 Matvei was a jurist and did not need the estate. In this way Aleksander Matveevich
became a land owner and now began the most difficult years of the young family. Again
years and years disappear from my memory, but also from the life in Simferopol. Since
the young couple had little money – I never heard that O.O. had brought with her a
significant dowry – the estate was not in good shape and everything had to be started
from the beginning. But A.M. was a very clever person, had finished a good agricultural
school, and was a wonderful worker. He was truly immersed in his agriculture and I
vividly remember, how he looked during one of his later visits, which made it clear that
there was no mechanic on the estate and that this work was done by the estate owner
himself. He was not only a good owner, conscienciously doing his work, he was also an
innovator and was not afraid to entertain new ideas. We in our dry corner strongly stuck
to the keeping of sheep, seeing in this a steady even if not large, profit. Al. Matv. also
began keeping sheep, but after several years had passed he felt that in his region the
sheep had already passed their usefulness and could not compete with grain production
–and eliminated the sheep. At that time we began to cover the grape bushes with earth
for the winter, and this immediately decreased the upkeep and increased the revenue
for the vintners. Al.Mat. decided that if vineyards in the Dnjper region give a good
income, the same will be the case in Chuik. First he developed a small vineyard, the
years were successful – and in Chuik an excellent vineyard appeared. Then A. Mat.
bought a plow and instead of digged deep ditches, without which planting grapes in our
stony ground was impossible and which was very expensive, he plowed several
desjatins right away and planted them with grapes. But cold years came, and the
grapes, still withstanding the winters in our valleys, froze in the open fields of Chuik.
Thus we never drank Chuikian wine, but Al. Mat. only laughed good-naturedly about the
misfortune of his experiment. The difficult years progressed. Al. Mat. and O.O. seldom
appeared in the city and stayed there only when it was necessary. Once, I remember, I
came to town and stopped in to see Aunt Tsily “ Olga Onufrievna is here, yesterday a
son was born to her“ she greeted me. That was Volodja. She knew how to keep
house, also Al. Mat.; his work and thrift had their effect. Gradually a new house was
built and when the children grew up and had to be educated, a smallish house was
Page 80 bought not far from Grechesky Street and near the residence of the Lustich family on
the Gubernatorski corner. Materially A. M. was helped by the fact that he began to
manage the estate of Skirmunt.
Skirmunt was an almost legendary miser, but the
wealthiest owner in the steppes, living completely alone in his corner of the Perekozhny
steppes. When he died without a will, his heir appeared to be a young officer in one of
the Capital regiments and his two sisters. They had never met the provider of their
inheritance and had not the slightest wish to dedicate themselves to agriculture. The
young officer immediately resigned, and dedicated himself to other matters. He was a
cultured man ‘progressive’ as we said at that time, and enjoyed the idea of serving
Russia by publishing good books.
For regulating the inheritance and for judicial
reasons, he needed a lawyer in the Crimea, and M. M. Schlee was recommended to
him. They became great friends, and when Skirmunt began to search for a manager for
his estates, M. M. recommended his brother Aleksander to him. Soon both brothers
began to see Skirmunt not only as a client, but as a truly good person, who wanted to
do a good deed with the money which he so unexpectedly inherited, and they honestly
and consciensciously helped him. Farmers lived on Skirmunt’s estates – renters – and
the new landlord and his manager began to build houses for them, and a school and
began to help them to improve their households. Unfortunately, Skirmunt’s publishing
business turned out to be not profitable, that is, the owner did not hunt for profit and
published books which did not sell on the market, and the whole business turned into a
loss, not tenable for Skirmunt. The brothers Schlee tried to convince S. to shorten his
range, but without success, and finally the estates were sold. But this position not only
played a material role in the life of A.M. Due to his managerial duties he often had to
travel to the Perekopsky region, had to be in Simferopol more often and stay longer,
and travel to see Skirmunt in Moscow, where S. lived (during one of those visits he went
for 3 days to Petersburg. I was able to get tickets for a concert by Yaltseva, who was in
great favor at that time. A.M. sat on the stage and when Yaltseva, after having sung,
passed by him, he, in his full height, so convincingly said “bravo”, that she stopped and
involuntarily raised her eyes to the so evidently delighted giant). At that time he realized
that the estates proceeded so well that they did not require his constant presence, but it
Page 81 was clear to us that he already was a little bored and tired of such a small enterprise,
and he thought he could do more. And this is where the second, much more interesting
part of A.M.’s life and work began. He moved to town and was elected a member of the
City Council, which he remained until 1920. He immediately became the director of the
business-oriented aspects of his town and market, and into this he poured all his
wonderful characteristics: knowledge, honesty, industriousness, steadfastness, and
practicality. Every day early in the morning one could see his tall, wide-shouldered
figure, walking stick in hand, walking among the crowd, smiling. Everyone knew him,
everyone admired him, everyone believed him and everyone feared him when
something was wrong. And in a few years our market was not recognizable. The
bazaar’s pavement, whose holes caused me so many problems in my childhood and
which I described earlier, had been repaired before his tenure, I believe. But all the
overhangs, comfortable, light and even pretty, under which huge amounts of apricots,
beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, other vegetables and watermelons were displayed, were
built during his tenure; A.M. was in charge of all matters connected with the market: the
routines on the days of deliveries, sales directly from the transports, the altercations
with the middle-men who constituted a united evil for the sellers – the farmers – as well
as the buyers, overseeing the dairy products, the sanitary supervision of the sale of
meats and fishes, fights with cheaters concerning weights and measures, keeping the
bazaar and stores clean, and finally, collecting the city’s receipts in all that noisy and
turbulent, a variety of languages speaking, ungrammatical, helpless and often sly,
multitude. And he accomplished all this masterfully. The merchants knew him, and
therefore obeyed him without noise and yelling and disorder. But he also knew and
even loved his bazaar clients, was always fair and vigorously protected their interests if
the Council ever tried to infringe on their activities. The Council also knew and trusted A
M. and they all understood that he had thought about these matters more than any of
them, and that they only had to put the stamp of approval on his decisions. Meanwhile
A.M.’s business seemed so small and unimportant - the bazaar – turned out to be the
main financial nerve in our small and non-mercantile town, and from the receipts the
town obtained most of the money which was used to govern the town, and for building a
Page 82 school, hospital, etc. And A.M. perfectly understood his role in this, and I will never
forget how he once said to me: “you know, you walk and keep thinking, where else
could one levy taxes, I think I would tax my own father for everything I could - a
bourgeois and capitalist!” Well, after this you can decide did this phrase come from a
bloodsucker-bourgeois, estate owner and capitalist or inveterate socialist!
As a person, A.M. is much less clear to me than as a public activist. His natural
silence during personal interactions was almost secretive – he never spoke about his
plans, we never knew what went on in his soul. Compared to him, Aunt Masha was
almost an exhibitionist: whenever something really upset her strongly, she quickly and
excitedly became outraged, as we used to say: to scold and to quiet down only when
she had enumerated all her indignations. I do not remember a single such outburst
from A.M. His maximum expression of displeasure was visible in the astounded look
and an involuntary lifting of the shoulders. After that he would somehow helplessly look
at the people who were present as if to ask whether they also understood the
incorrectness of what was being said or done. He himself did not quarrel, was not
loudly outraged but sometimes, later, he would make a venomous remark concerning
the difference of opinion which had occurred. And in the council meetings (for many
years A.M. was the chairman of the Simferopol region after the death of F.M. Schlee)
and in the city duma, he seldom made comments and his reports were of the shortest
possible length. In the summer of 1911 we went together to Karlsbad, where A.M.had
already gone every year for many years for curing his diabetes, we saw each other
every day and the whole day, but this did not bring our souls closer, and I did not get the
chance to even look into his soul. I do not know if even his wife Olga Onufrievna knew
his soul.
She was a wonderfully kind Russian person with all the good and bad
attributes. Having received a satisfactory education, she very quickly became a mother
and housewife, and this she remained to the end of her life. This is of course not
surprising if one imagines the many monotonous years of her life which she spent in a
Crimean village in the steppes, especially in Chebatark, far removed from even such a
lowly place as Simferopol. There was little money, the children arrived one after the
Page 83 other, the servants came from simple and nice but totally untrained villagers who were
quite unused to even the simplest household amenities; one of whom, for example, was
drying a wine glass and broke its top from its bottom and brought it to the mistress of
the house and quite seriously said: “it became unscrewed”. They all had to be trained,
and she herself needed to be the cook and the nanny. With a husband such as A.M.
she did not even need to enter into the larger business, that is, the dairy business, or to
work in the garden; there A.M. himself gave the instructions, and even the simplest
villager understood better than the city-bred mistress, and slowly, O.O. used her mind
only for the family and the kitchen. She loved the children tenderly, especially the
daughter Verochka, and was a first-class housewife. The food in her house was always
totally delicious and abundant, so much so that a new guest somehow even would
surreptitiously begin to look around the table at all the guests and not understand for
whom all the food had been prepared. But we, the guests, did not lack appetite, and
especially after the four sons had grown up somewhat, a good half of the prepared food
was happily eaten. But I am convinced that if it was not half, then a third was left over.
I must add here that in all our families only O.O. kept the old Russian custom of sending
food to the prison during holidays to give to the arrested people, and it was her alone
whom the monks of the Toplov monastery which lay opposite their house, greeted.
O.O. was bored in our midst. Being busier than our other ladies, and not finding anyone
as interested in culinary and housewifely matters as she was, she apathetically listened
to the talk about political or local themes, or about matters in the ladies’ club, of which
she did not want to be a member, and would quietly nod off . Soon, however, it
became evident that this nodding off was not healthy and was due to obesity of the
heart. Poor O.O. began to fall asleep sitting at the table among noisy guests. In the
end she developed leukemia, and in the summer of 16’ she died (8.3.16.) with a quick
death that nobody had expected. A.M. had gone to the baths, as usual, only this time
to the Caucasus, and his exact address was not known yet. They randomly sent him
several telegrams. A.M. came home unexpectedly and without having spoken to
anyone, and the first thing he saw was the lid of the coffin.
Page 84 After O.O.’s death troubled years followed. New housekeepers appeared in the
house, daughters-in-law, grandchildren. Life seemed to have been renewed. A.M.
remained the same, but we, the older generation were home less often. There was only
one more very vociferous meeting of the family during the civil war, where the young
people already were dominant, and we were lost among them.
A.M. left with the
Wrangel emigration. He was to go to Bulgaria the next day, with the family of his son
Shura, and Vera. We only met once and did not correspond with each other. He died
11.18. 1938 in a nursing home for Russians, in Shipknys, and was buried there. It has
remained a constant question for me, how the practical and industrious A.M. and his
less talented son, could not have succeeded better in Bulgaria, because they had not
so small an amount of money, in German money which at that point had not yet lost its
value, with them. When I asked A.A. about this when we met here, he declined to
answer. Of course this interested me only from a psychological aspect, and I did not
insist further. But according to their stories, for a long time they simply lived in poverty
in Bulgaria. A.A. was a simple laborer and A.M. a night watchman.
Children: 1. Volodja was born 7.25.1888.
From 1910-1913 he studied at the
Engineering Academy in Wiesmar on the Baltic Sea, then was mobilized. Was married
in the year 1916 to Nina Mikhailovna Boguslavski; in the year ‘17, July 12 a son, Igor,
was born.
Volodja and his family stayed in the Crimea and he served in various
establishments. After the death of his wife (9.3.38), he married Anna Borisovna
Beletskoi ( they had met through her former husband, Tsellarius). In ‘44 he came to
Germany with his wife and her daughter. Igor remained in the Crimea, worked as a
teacher in a settlement; was married to Nadezhda Demenkov; in March ‘42 had a son,
Yuri.
2. Nikolai, was born 12.5. 1889, studied at the Sorbonne, but was called to military
service, also remained in the Crimea, and worked there until the year 1930. When he
was “cleared out” as a foreign element, he went to Chabarovsk, from there to the Kuban
(Armenia), from there to Saratov, where he lived with his wife Tsetsilia Martylovna
Schnaider, granddaughter of Nikol. Sevast., the last news from him were in ‘41; he was
Page 85 a common laborer, worked in an agricultural union, and his brother Serjezha told me
that Kolja was highly appreciated.
3. Aleksander was born 3.7.1892, studied in the Natural Studies department in
Moscow but did not finish, that is, he was drafted. He married Aleksandra Mitrofanovna
Tich; on 10.22.’17 a son, Georgi was born. He left during the Wrangel evacuation and
lived with his father in a village in Bulgaria. In the end he established himself very well
and owned a well-attended restaurant. After the beginning of the war with Russia he
came to Germany and became a German citizen.
From 1943-44 he worked
in
Melitopolis, now he is working in Nuremberg.
4. Michail was born 2.1.1897, studied at the Imperial Moscow Technical Institute,
but did not finish, that is, he was drafted. He finished the Odessa Artillery Institute, was
shot to death on 11.20.1920.
5. Vera, was born 9.4.1902, left with her father and brother. In Varna she married a
Greek industrialist, Siderakis. Children Olga, Perikl, Angel, Georgi. Lives in Salonika.
The son Perikl came to Vienna and is working there.
6. Matveii Matveevich, Matja, as everyone called him, was the youngest member of
the Schlee family, and was born, I think, around the year 1862. All Schlees could be
divided into two groups: the silent and the talkative ones: Franz, Maria and Aleksander
belonged to the first one, Tsetsilia, Ivan and Matvei – to the second group; Ferdinand
and our mother stood in the middle, but closer to the first one. To say about Matja that
he was talkative was to say too little.
He was unusually expansive and full of life;
wherever he was, there always was gaiety and noise, he bickered amiably with
everyone, especially with Aunt Tsilia; he knew how to tell anecdotes – Jewish or
Armenian - , mimicked the Swabian dialect of some rustic relative, sang with a smallish
but true tenor some excerpt or other from an opera or love-song or could tell a fresh tale
from his own life, so that everybody fell over with laughter. He was smaller and thinner
than his brothers, and his hair and beard more brown ( all Schlees were reddish, the
men had lighter-colored hair), a hooked nose, and with his liveliness and vivacity he
could easily have passed for a Jew. He was aware of this himself and made fun of
himself, saying: “and who knows, perhaps we really originate from kikes?” The brothers
Page 86 and Aunt Tsilia would answer: “perhaps that is why you have such kikish nerve!” And
he himself would almost lose his breath from laughing: “yesterday I was at the train
station and was sitting on a bench next to an old Jew, and suddenly he began to tell me
something quickly, quickly, in Jewish. Of course I understood nothing; finally I said
“wus”? (in jiddish: what?) I think that our grandfatherly comrade traveler constructed my
face properly! The old man became more lively and spoke even faster. So I said to him
“what do you want from me? I do not understand a single word of what you say.” The
old man immediately was dumbfounded, became frightened, looked at me and almost
ran away.”
Jokes about Jewish origins were constant. But during the time of the
American-Spanish war the name of the American Admiral Schlee often began to appear
in a laudatory manner in the newspapers. During one of Aunt Tsilia’s afternoon coffees
is was unanimously decided that such a famous family could of course be of Jewish
origins. – After finishing high school, M.M. began to study law at the university in
Moscow. This coincided with the reform and new university regulations in 1884. The
courses of M.M. were the last which did not yet have to conform to the new system.
M.M. did not belong to the new type of student groups, and then, and also later, was not
very interested in politics. But he loved the freedom of student life, had many friends
and happily told of his life in Moscow.
Of course I was at that time too small to
remember his stories, but by chance that loud disgust with which Uncle Matja told his
brothers and sisters how angry he was when his name at the university was written as:
Matias Matiasovich Schlee, remained in my memory. What kind of Matias Matiasovich
am I? I am Matvei Matveevich Schlee - and he immediately went to inform some
higher official who sharply answered him that the names were copied from lists, and in
the lists
of students that is how he was called.
I do not know why that episode
remained in my memory and I do not remember how this was resolved, and not how the
brothers and sisters reacted to this.
This would be of interest now, because the
contemporary Schlees cannot at all decide whether they are Russians or Germans.
Matja spent his summer vacations at his brothers and sisters in turn, and everywhere
was a welcomed guest. Only once did they teach him a lesson in guile, when it became
evident that he told each sister that her coffee was the best and reminded him of their
Page 87 mother’s coffee, that is, our grandmother’s. As it was, all the sisters competed with
each other to make the coffee most liked by the family. “We know you, we know you”
they said to him when he began to praise one dish or another of the lady of the house.
After finishing the university, M.M. was a judge in Sevastopol for quite a long time, and
there he caught a cold and became ill with tuberculosis. Maria Matveevna took him to a
sanatorium in the mountains, where he stayed for quite a long while, improved but not
totally. In Sevastopol he also found his sister-in-law – Maria Ferdinandovna Kist, the
niece of Wilgelm and Ferdinanda Osipovna Lustich. This was probably in 1890 or 1891.
We became acquainted with her and her younger sister Zhenja/Evgenia in Bulganak at
Aunt Masha’s where he came to visit for a few days, and we, my brother Serjezha and I
often came to Aunt Masha to help her weigh and turn over quinine powders, etc., which
was a big and boring job for her. Soon they married and moved to live in Simferopol,
where M. M. worked in the judicial department. This marriage caused great agitation in
the close family. M.M.’s tuberculosis was healed, but the danger remained. His bride
was so skinny, that this caused many suspicions and also worry about the danger to
future progeny.
problems.
But the young people themselves were happy, merry and without
The unquestioned decency of the young lawyer, his kind social character
and the good name of his older brothers soon provided him with a good clientele and it
seemed to him that life had smiled at him.
The young people were able to do well for
themselves right away. They rented the lower floor of the large baronial house of the
Rudzheviches with a large but neglected garden, which dropped down to the “river”
Salgir; they furnished it nicely and waited for clients. That year I was finishing high
school and was with them often. I remember a small, comical episode. In that house
there was one rarity, and it was used to denote the aristocracy of its owner: bells at the
front door. The mechanical bell was defective due to old age, and one had to pay close
attention to catch the distinctive ringing of the bell. At one time, in the evening, the bell
rang, and automatically everyone thought: a client! And someone really came into the
study. He was one of the first, and everyone was understandably excited, because
everyone else present was a member of the family. The visit lasted a while – evidently
it was a complicated and difficult situation, but also one that promised much. Finally
Page 88 M.M., accompanied the client out, and with much laughter burst into the dining room.
“Just imagine!”, and with his usual exuberance, Uncle Matja described to us how he, as
well as the client did not right away speak of the business, but finally it turned out that
the visitor was not a client at all, but a bankrupt young actor who appealed to the
“famous attorney, respected by everyone, in his own gorgeous study” in order to ask for
help with departing Russia. When the situation on both sides was clarified, the young
attorney told him in a friendly way about the difficulty for everyone without exception of
obtaining one’s success as a beginner, and the “client” left.
However, the domicile turned out to be not very comfortable, the garden was damp,
and the young Schlees took the opportunity to move to a new apartment on Dvoransky
Street in the private mansion bought by A.D. Lustich, as soon as possible. At that time I
already was at the university, and we saw each other only during vacations.
The
apartment was smaller, but bright, sunny and comfortable, and in the small room by the
entrance sat an amazingly quiet and reticent scribe, a young man with the strange
name of “Knigov” and copied letters for hours on end. From this alone one could see
that the young lawyer’s business was growing, but there also were other signs of this.
And again my memory paints a beautiful summer evening for me. We are peacefully
drinking tea in the dining room, and in the small room Knigov is as quietly as a mouse
rustling with papers, when suddenly the bell rings: M.M. has returned from Feodosia.
He came home happily, but that was not all – he beamed so strongly that even the
calmest person could not help but be interested to know what had happened. And very
ceremoniously he opened two packages, and took out ...two paintings by
Aivazovsky.***** Think of it – two real Aivazovskys, bought from him personally ! To
this day I remember the price: 200 rubles for each small picture. Each picture was
about half the size of this sheet of paper, and a wide golden frame made it seem larger.
Dear, eternally enthusiastic Uncle Matja! I do not know the fate of these pictures, but
his shining eyes still appear before me, and that is truly better and worth more than all
paintings, even Aivasofsky’s.
And that is how he has remained in my memory.
I
remember how warmly he welcomed me when I had just finished my law studies, how
Page 89 often, we debated hotly with each other – I, of course, only theoretically, he already with
a large practice, how he urged me to become a lawyer, but also spoke of the
unpleasant parts of this profession. His business kept getting better. Soon he obtained
an important position and around 1900 or 1901 he built himself a gorgeous 2-story
house on the best street (at that time, Lazarevsky). How sincerely happy he was when
the façade which he had chosen for the house (a copy, of course), was mentioned in
the Encyclopedic Dictionary of Broigaz and Efron among the examples of beautiful
houses. He was so happy about this mainly because it was an affirmation of his good
taste. But our poor Uncle Matja did not live long in his house. He died in the year 1903
or 04; as all consumptives, he did not suspect his condition. On the day of his death he
said to my mother: “cook for me, Varja, gebrannte Mehlsuppe like our mother used to,
they do not know how” and even ate one or two spoonfuls.
The health of Maria Ferdinandova turned out to be stronger. Remaining a widow
with two children, still very small, she did not falter and took her fate and that of her
children into her able hands. It is true that her material position, and being the owner of
a beautiful house and co-owner of the best and successful restaurant “Kist” in
Sevastopol, was a very good thing, but she still had to take care of the children and
raise them.
For several years she continued to live in Simferopol, then moved to
Petersburg and during the summers managed the restaurant after the death of her
brother. We always remained good friends with her and I sincerely loved and love this
kind and life-happy person. In 1919 she went to Athens and later we met in Paris and I
do not know who had it worse, she or we. When our ship on which we left for Marseille
came to Piraeus she came to see us and brought food and some fruit. From Paris she
and her son came to America with the Kuznetsovoi Troupe, he as secretary and she as
costume designer. At first life was difficult for them, but later they opened a modern
boutique – and became fantastically wealthy. I hope that even now Maria Ferdinandova
is alive and well.
These Schlees had two children; Georgi and Ksenia. I remember them when they
Page 90 were very small, after that we saw little of them in Petersburg, then I saw Ksenia in
Anapa – just as thin, but evidently also very strong, as when she carried her son, a boy
of 3 or 4 on her back, like her mother, and I thought with horror that any minute this
woman will collapse; later I saw George in Sevastopol during the Wrangel time, and
finally, in Munich, where he was coming through one day for some American business.
It is difficult to write about people about whom you know so little. I can only say that
M.F. and Georgi helped us very much when Andre went to and established himself in
America.
Georgi Matveevich is married, but in an open marriage. He is married to Valentina
Nikolaevna Sanin, born May 1, 1904. He has no children.
Ksenia’s husband was a marine officer, Anatoly Ivanovich Kalljukin. He died. They
had no children.
6. My mother
Our mother belonged to the type of people for whose portrait one did not need oil
paints. This was a simple, person, also modest in her looks, and with a character of
which God should give us more. Not tall, in middle age leaning to fullness, with dark
brown hair which turned gray early and with a very kind straight face with merry,
observant gray eyes; she had nothing typically German in her exterior looks. Her health
was amazing – she lived to deep old age, and I never remember her being seriously ill;
we, all of her children, owe her our own good health, I believe. It is true that she did not
jeopardize her health with any experiments. All of us sinned with excesses of various
kinds and only limited ourselves when our organisms began to protest and our doctor
said: do not eat, do not drink, etc. Mother was somehow organically moderate. Not
only did she never drink or smoke, but was also moderate and not demanding when she
ate. However tasty this or that dish was, however seldom it appeared, Mama ate only a
little. She loved to cook well, but only for others, and never for herself personally. Her
favorite food was coffee. It was enough to be home, even if it was only one of us, and
Page 91 she would prepare our usual meal for us. When Mother was alone, and the meal was
being prepared for the servants, Mama would eat the same thing, or whatever was
available – and drank her coffee. But she liked good coffee and did not spare money to
buy quality and quantity. With her coffee she liked good cream, butter and cheese. I
am writing these details because at that time such moderation among the excesses
which occurred in all colonisits’ houses, still seems to me to be a special characteristics
of self-control and natural intelligence.
Mother somehow felt all the necessities of
nutritional hygiene. But at that time Mother’s moderation made us angry, even though
she never inflicted her habits even on us, her children. On the contrary, she knew
perfectly well what we especially liked, and loved to present each one with the special
dish he liked best, and when we asked: “Mama, would you like some?” the answer
always was: “no, I am not hungry.” And this was not pedagogy, discipline or laziness –
it was the truth and we knew this, and this made us angry. Why did we want to eat and
she did not? Mama’s character was astounding. Always even-tempered, she could be
energetic, demanding and insistant, but did this softly and quietly.
Everything she
undertook, she did exemplarily, and demanded the same from others. And here also
she seemed to have some kind of internal regulator which directed her endless energy.
I still remember a time when we had only one servant and Mama herself had to cook
and of course help clean the house, iron and fold the laundry, etc. and even wash the
floors. But these daily chores did not lead her to become the usual housewife. She
cooked perfectly, tasty and economically, she chose the cuts of meat and no butcher
dared to substitute one piece of meat for another! But she was bored when other
housewives spoke about recipes or talked about how this or that should be cooked.
Our house always was clean, but cleanliness did not become a cult, and not all energy
and time was used up for this by the housewife.
I remember that once Serjezha,
already after his marriage, said to her: “you know, Mama, in their house (his wife’s)
there is no dust, not even on the tops of the closets.” These words evidently stung
Mama, but she only said: “Not everyone has so much time that they can wipe the dust
from the tops of the closets every day.” She of course did not have enough time for
this, she had so much work outside the house and she did not hide the fact that these
Page 92 little jobs bored her. She did them only as much as necessary. It was unavoidable; she
was interested in working in her garden, in the dairy, and for this there were no limits to
her energy. She could do all the work herself, instruct others, learned through practice
what was new to her, understood perfectly the basics of the problem and then continued
with such knowledge and confidence that she instilled total attention and obedience
from all the workers.
Her advice or directives always were well-considered and
practical, people understood this and did not see a commanding owner, but a co-worker
who herself did not mind doing the same work when she was able to, but often had
more experience and always accepted advice. Her youth, full of hard work, the early
years of her marriage without means, developed in her an understanding of physical
labor and a working person, which was lacking in Father and in all of us. Therefore she
came closer to the workers and understood them better.
She strongly saw to
cleanliness and order in the laborers’ kitchen and their living quarters, inspected the
dishes used for food and harshly scolded the cook if she found them not clean enough,
called the worker into the house and gave him a glass of wine or vodka if he worked
especially hard, a glass of vodka with pepper if he said that his stomach hurt, she knew
what was lacking in this or that family of a permanent worker and remembered them all.
When it was necessary, she could scold but she did this so inoffensively and only then,
when the person himself understood his misdeed, and nobody ever was offended by
her words.
And in addition to all that, she was full of attention and love for us, her children, and
again, not with some cloying sentimental love, but actual one, but she also was
demanding.
I have already said that we feared her more than Father. Father seldom
was angry with us, it would have had to be an extraordinary misdeed so that he would
have paid attention to it. But then he hollered and became so heated that we became
frightened and we would long remember the incident. It was like the eruption of a
volcano after which followed a long silence. Mother noticed much more and more often,
yelled and sometimes even spanked us, but much more consistently insisted on her
demands. The most amazing incidents occurred in the children’s room when it had
Page 93 been decided to give us castor oil and this was not seldom the case, because in our
house there existed the conviction that the most common and clean childhood disease
was definitely caused by the stomach. Nowadays stomachs and children battle much
less frequently. Some evil genie convinced Mother that the best way to administer
castor oil is in hot coffee.
I have met this conviction also in other places, but
strenuously dispute it. Hot coffee greatly increases the already repugnant smell of
castor oil and I, for example, began to feel nauseous already at that moment, when the
cup with the disgusting contents was brought into the room. In addition, the amount of
liquid one had to swallow two- or four-fold, one could not do it in one swallow, and the
increased amount of hot coffee which one had to swallow clung to the walls of the glass
so strongly that one could not get rid of the taste with any jam eaten later, even with the
raspberry jam which always followed the procedure.
Thus, when the patient was
condemned to this horrible drink and Mother went to make the necessary preparations,
Father always came and tried to convince the sick child to undergo the procedure
without complaint, even saying that he himself could not stand castor oil but that there
were moments when it was unavoidable. The poor patient listened to these assertions
rather skeptically, already knowing what would happen later. And in the doors of the
room Mother appeared, quickly carrying the cup with the terrible hot mixture and behind
her someone with the life-saving raspberry jam, and our father almost ran from the
room, thinking equally with sympathy of the one condemned to the misery and of his
own distaste of castor oil and its smell.
Mother would say: “come, my little child,”
coming closer to the bed. The “little child” would courageously raise itself up, open its
mouth, and often would not be able to control itself and turn away at the same second
when the cup was brought close to its mouth. Then Mama became angry, not jokingly –
she knew her children’s love for castor oil, and therefore the dish with the raspberry jam
needed to be held by somebody else, that is, Mother needed one free hand – she would
take the head of the child and angrily shout: “drink, drink immediately!” At this point the
unfortunate had no more choice, and shaking with distaste and fright at the same time,
he began to swallow the disgusting mixture. Began – but sometimes did not finish,
sometimes drank it to the end and even ate the life-saving jam and fell onto the pillow
Page 94 with exhaustion, but nevertheless jumped up after a few seconds – Mama made a
terrible face, yelled: “do not dare, do not dare!” but nothing helped and the outraged
stomach returned everything that had been put into it with so much trouble.....There
followed a tragic silence, Father’s suffering face appeared at the door, and the cured
patient pleadingly looked at Mother. But she responded with a strict voice: “lie down
and rest, and later you will take it again.” And the whole procedure was repeated, and
the next day the patient already was well, and that same angry mother, with a face very
different from yesterday, would bring him rice soup with chicken in a special small soup
bowl, and herself feed yesterday’s suffering child.
But childhood diseases did not
always progress so turbulently and successfully. Sometimes the castor oil did not help,
the temperature did not fall, the doctor would begin to come every day, the head hurt, it
was difficult to breathe, at night the patient would turn and wake up often. No matter
how many times the child would wake up, Mama was always there, near it. She sat at
the foot of his bed, in the dim night light her bed jacket shimmered white, and her head
barely rose above her folded hands. It was enough to move, and she came, touched
your head, changed the compress, gave you the medicine, a drink or else poured you
something with a spoon which made it easier to breathe, and one could go back to
sleep again. And all this was done tenderly, heart-felt, knowing all of the patient’s
wishes in advance. Mother never lost her head and did not break into complaints and
lamentations, nothing was too difficult for her. I remember that once I was brought from
the village with a high temperature. The house was totally empty during the summer,
and for some reason the two of us were there alone. My head was burning and painful,
ice was nowhere to be had – there were such times in Simferopol – and poor Mama
kept running downstairs for fresh water, which used to warm up quickly in the hot
Crimean summer nights, and changed my compress every five minutes, throwing the
wet towels behind the window in order to lower their temperatures even a little bit. I
remember how Edja fell ill with typhoid when he was six years old. The case was very
severe, for a whole week his temperature stayed above 104 F. degrees, and during his
whole illness only a nurse and Mother took care of him. But our Mama was not only an
excellent nurse. As a thoughtful and intelligent observer she learned from her patients,
Page 95 and the deeply clever manner of the Russian versus the German doctor to explain to
the patient and his family the nature of this or that medication and its effect, helped her
to gain much important medical knowledge throughout her life. And she developed
within herself a sort of instinct but not “premonition” or nervous “foresight” but perhaps
this was a result of her knowledge – she summarized the facts of what was known. I
believed in this instinct all my life and was very, very glad when she said that this was
not terrible, but became anxious when she kept silent and only shook her head, even
though the physician reassured us. Many years passed, Serjezha already was a doctor
himself, married, I finished the university and lived with them. When Serjezhka was
born (9.25.1895) all three of us took care of him. Soon it turned out that the mother did
not have enough milk and the baby needed additional food using the “Soislet” method.
Nowadays this has been forgotten, but then it was the last word of scientific knowledge,
and I was given the task. I fulfilled this duty with all the joy of a young uncle and godfather. I made the mixture with pharmaceutical precision, observed the boiling and
sterilizing with astronomical precision, washed the dishes chemically clean. But our
Serjezhka
gradually began to decline, to scream, to scream until it became
unendurable. The doctor was called – my brother was an intern in the clinic and his
superior was also the director of the children’s clinic.
The doctor examined our
procedures and equipment and approved the feeding of the mixture – in other words,
everything all was in order, but Serjezhka screamed and screamed. The doctor did not
know the cause of this and finally called Professor Filatov – with the same result. All
this time our letters home of course expressed our concern and helplessness. One
wonderful day, a telegram arrived unexpectedly and after it Mama herself came. She
silently listened to all our stories, for a day or two observed our method of nourishing
and finally declared: “O you learned fools. Let me feed the baby.” All of our science,
the Soislet method, - all was put up-side-down, but after two nights Serjezhka began to
gain weight and stopped screaming.
He simply had been hungry – evidently all
scientific norms had not been written for him, and in later years he demonstrated his
ability to eat tremendous amounts of food. Our own children we did not feed by the
Soislet method, Andre, like Serjezhka loved to eat. But then he was born and raised in
Page 96 the same town where his grandmother lived!
Undoubtedly a great natural mind and observation helped our mother to overcome
the complete absence of an education. She was born and raised at a time when her
parents could not spend much for an education of the children, and therefore the two
oldest: Ferdinand and Varja, went to the German elementary school near the
Simferopol Lutheran church. Why Lutheran? Very simple. In Simferopol was a Luth.
Church but there was no permanent minister, and how it always was done in ministerless evangelical colonies, there was a permanent teacher who on Sundays read the
gospel to the parishioners. Therefore the Lutherans had a school to which German
Catholics also went. After he finished school, Ferdinand, as I have already written, was
sent to a boarding high school but Varja began housekeeping work – more and more
children were born into the family, and therefore what was left for a whole lifetime was
what was learned in elementary school, where at that time there were no “Russification”
regulations of the year 1872, and children were not taught to read or write in Russian.
In this way our poor mother spent her lifespan, without reading and writing Russian and
how much anger this caused in her life, and in what self-worth this situation put her! In
her youth, when she worked without resting her hands, she probably did not feel this so
much, but in our youth, when we all around her were reading and discussing what we
had read, when she would have had the leisure for reading, she had to be satisfied with
reading German, from which she had spiritually moved away completely. But it would
be an exaggeration to say that she longed for literature, for books. She was too lively
and vital, her spirit was too full of love for her work and interests in it, for there to
develop an emptiness which would have to be filled even with the beautiful and lofty, in
the form of literature. Books evidently did not satisfy her as guide in her life – but all
gardening books and recipes we, or Father who did not have the patience or real
interest, had to read to her. Her inability to write in Russian became especially difficult
when we began to travel far away to the university – all correspondence between us
was done by Father, and only seldom a little piece of paper on which Mother wrote
something in German, was inserted into the envelope. She only wrote little notes about
Page 97 household concerns to herself, and even that was a chore for her. My kind, kind Mama!
If my archive will ever come to Munich, I will definitely add one of her last little notes,
already sent here, in which she almost apologizes that she could not help us with
anything, because nothing had been left to her herself, and she had had to sell
everything in order not to die of hunger. Her letters were like that all her life.They were
not long, spoke of necessary things, of that which was interesting to her and her
correspondent, there were not many tender words, but true love and connectedness.
This inner richness of energy and interest in life did lead one not to notice that
deficiency of education of our mother. But she herself realized this deficiency better
than all of us and therefore she was very reticent about questions where this was
noticeable. In our noisy and endless intellectual debates about all kinds of themes, she
avoided to take part but listened with interest, but always was quiet, and only when we,
at the end of the arguments asked for her thoughts, she quietly would give her opinion.
And it was clear that she deliberated perfectly well in our debates, weighed them,
considered their merits, and then had her definite opinions. We treasured her opinions
very much and I honestly dare say that I did not, during our life together, make a single
step in whatever area that was, without discussing it with our simple, so little-read andeducated mother. And these soulful discussions she began with a modest phrase: “I do
not know, Volja, what to say to you, but I think.......” and her eyes looked just as
concerned as when she used to sit by our bed during the times of our illnesses.
Was our mother a German? Yes, and it would have never occurred to any one of
us to dispute this. But if abroad someone were to ask her what she was, it would not
occur to her not to say “Russian”. She was a Russian German. She was abroad twice
– in Germany and in Switzerland. Both times she returned enchanted with the sights,
but from her stories one could not detect any doubts about where she was at home.
Her home was in Russia, over there she was a guest. I remember that one summer a
traveling musician – a German - came to our village. Among others, he sang a popular
song “Schon ist die Jugend”.
Evidently the memories of her youth and childhood
Page 98 affected Mama especially strongly, and she simply sat down on the steps and listened
to this unmemorable song, obviously quite moved. Later she fed the musician and gave
him some money, so that he appeared soon again and sang “Schon ist die Jugend” for
her. When in the years 1915 and ’16 we received about 20 Slovakian and AustrianGerman prisoners of war, Mother attempted to improve their condition as much as
possible, spoke German to those who knew that language and altogether did not hide at
all that she was of German origin. But again it did not occur to any one of us to
question on which side the sympathy of our mother lay in this war. She was irrevocably
Russian, even though she was born to German parents. But she was born – in Russia!
Our mother’s character was simple and open. She loved and understood a joke, could
laugh merrily, she could be and was strict with the servants, but she was not mean. We
had many workers in the garden and among them there were some unpleasant and
unintelligent ones, but I do not ever remember a case where Mother would hit or push
one of them. In her youth she very much loved to dance and told us that when she
arrived at weddings in Bulganak, she danced for 3 days and danced through the soles
of her slippers. As opposed to her husband, she loved and knew how to play cards, but
not whist, which bored her. During early fall evenings we used to play “65” for hours,
and she enjoyed this very much.
She sewed all of her underwear and also ours,
herself, and mended everything by hand, and did not like any “frills”, and sincerely was
perplexed where to put the various scarves and handkerchiefs given to her by her
daughters-in-law and later, granddaughters.
Before we had the village, she loved
indoor flowers, and our glass hallway in the old house was filled with flowers. There one
summer passion flower vine bloomed, which, do you remember? –- wound itself around
the stairs on the terrace in our winter garden in Chadjijevka and on which these flowers
“Passion of Christ” bloomed sometimes ten at one time.
7. Our parents.
I. House in the city.
Page 99 The marriage of our parents caused great agitation also in the family of the
bridegroom, where it was deemed improper for the youngest brother to marry before the
oldest one, and in the family of the bride, whose mother attempted to persuade her
daughter not to enter into the family spoiled by wealth but then impecunious, and in the
Armenian circles, hurt by the fact that one of its most prominent members would marry
a German, as if there were not enough Armenian girls, something which had never
happened in Armenian circles before. But the young people stood their ground, and on
April 4, 1866 was their wedding. Of course the bride’s mother had been right: the
groom’s family had been for a long time and now was completely broke, but all the more
festively and expensively the wedding of the son of Sergei Ivanovich Nalbandov had to
be celebrated. The carriage still existed, and it was hitched for this celebration, the road
from the entry to the steps of the church was decorated with red boughs, and a
watchman stood in front of the church during the festive occasion. The groom wore a
top hat – I am totally convinced that he himself would never have gone to such a degree
of “good etiquette”, because during any other occasions of life he never wore a top hat
again, and the said top hat stayed in a green box with the French name of the
manufacturer on it, on Father’s dresser, and was later moved to the closet where we put
older clothes, but we enjoyed looking at the elegant top hat before putting it back into its
box. Of course the whole wedding was celebrated in the style of the top hat, due to
which the mood of the young husband, who was in charge of the family’s finances, was
not particularly happy. But – noblesse oblige – so said and thought his close relatives.
After all, he was a Nalbandov.
As I have written before, during the first year, before the division,the young people
lived in the large house, in the summers they went to Aratuk. The division occurred in
the year 1867, and it was decided to move to the house inherited from the father. But it
was in a very unsavory condition.
From the corner of Fontansky Street up to
Sevastopolsky Street were low Tatar-type buildings, which housed: bakers, a cheap
eating place, and a coffee house. Behind the gate rose a 2 ½ story house with an exit
Page 100 to the second story in the middle and two smallish stores, one on each side of the side
of the exit. In the first store, still before my father’s birth, was the leather business of
David Artemovich Zakiev, in the second was the manufacturing store of Sharobero
which was the beginning of the Armenian Row. The huge courtyard behind this front of
the building was an abandoned lot at the back of which was the fowl and sheep bath.
The dirt and smell of these were nearly unbearable my mother told me, and in the
summer millions of flies plagued the lives of people.
But the former “nest” of the
Nalbandovs, Grandfather’s apartment, left much to be desired. It was a row of rooms,
and it was difficult to understand how the numerous members of Grandfather’s family
did not only live there, but constantly entertained guests. It is true that there was a
“hall” and a study, but in Grandfather’s time instead of a dining room were three rooms,
and instead of a children’s room there was a kitchen and more little rooms. I do not
know whether our parents began a renovation even before they moved in, or if they
lived in the old apartment in the beginning, but in any case they quickly remodeled it,
and included an addition. Father added a new part to the house which contained the
kitchen, new stairs to the yard, a new glass hallway which was not heated. Then on the
side a bathroom was attached, of course unheated and without running water and how
unpleasant it was, especially in cold weather and in the evenings, to run there through
the cold hallway.
This was also the only way to have contact with the kitchen and
many times poor Mama, if she had stood at the hot stove for a long time, caught a cold
after she walked that long way. Wood and water also had to be brought from below on
steep, dark stairs and it was only later that a pump was installed, but it froze not that
infrequently because the passage was so cold.
Under such condition the value of the house could not be large, Father’s
enterprises, as I have written before, were not very successful, and the young couple
understood that their property had to be put in order by any means whatsoever. The
land around the house was very busy and it had to be developed. And all their energy
now centered on that. The yard was paved, along its whole width horse stalls and
several rooms for travelers and several warehouses were added, and a Crimean
Page 101 hostelry arose. Of great help were the five thousand – inheritance of Mother – “when it
was very difficult I went to my mother and asked her to give me what she could from
my inheritance” Mother told us. Every penny spent of course increased the income, and
living was not expensive. Life nevertheless was difficult. One year after the wedding,
on March 10, 1867, a daughter was born, and again a little after a year, August 26,
1868 – a son. “We only had one servant – an Estonian girl, Tonja” Mama remembered.
“ I had to carry water and fire wood myself, go to the market, cook and look after the
children. When Serjezha was born, I was so thin that the doctors were afraid that I will
end up with tuberculosis, and demanded that I do not nurse the boy myself. But I could
not decide to give him to a wet nurse and continued to nurse him myself.
Well,
somehow all this worked out, and I improved.” Several years passed. The family’s
situation improved so much that Father decided on a larger building – to build a onestory house on the Fontansky Street – and this became the Crimean hostelry. During
its building, an unpleasant incident occurred: Father quarreled with someone, - and
brought some stones inside himself, and strained himself. This pain tortured him for the
rest of his life. Eleven months passed – and a new misfortune developed: after
childhood paralysis, both of my legs remained paralyzed. How much worry and anxiety,
how many efforts and expenses this illness caused it is not difficult to understand. No
matter how many doctors, how many measures were tried – all was in vain.
The
Turkish war was near, and the doctors suggested to take the boy to Petersburg and
show him to a specialist. “We put you onto a train, and in one station had to let the
Emperor’s train pass; the Emperor was going to Kishinev to declare war” – my father
told me. Petersburg also did not help, neither did healing waters. One had to make
peace with the sad fact.
More years passed. The material situation kept improving, and evidently Father
could not get used to the fact that he had no personal work and income. I am judging
this by the fact that his last enterprise, the buying of wool for export to Odessa, and from
there overseas, was done during the time I can remember – not before the year ’78 or
’79. But all further attempts did not succeed, when, suddenly the possibility arose to
Page 102 sharply change the conditions of one’s life and to finally find for oneself a real job, and
not only for oneself, but also for one’s very energetic wife who was very clearly
languishing in her petty surroundings, and perhaps also for the children.
But first I will finish telling about the old house and its fate. How did our family live
in it? Why, just like the other families in the provincial cities in the South of Russia. On
June 24, 1880, one more son was born – the last one, Eduard, the healthiest, best
looking one of the three of us. All children were born healthy, and suffered the usual
childhood diseases, but without complications. In the mornings Mother was usually the
first one to get up and went to wake us up. If we were unable to finish something in the
evening, or if we felt that we had to review something once more, we asked Mama to
wake us earlier, and at the agreed-upon time she would come with a candle in her
hand, in the same woolen dress which she had thrown over her nightgown, and would
say: “well, child, get up.” Then she would sit next to the table and knit while we studied.
When we came into the dining room, the samovar was already merrily boiling, and
everything was ready for tea. In the mornings Mother always gave us something to eat:
a little piece of cold meat, sausage or cheese with the obligatory roll with butter and a
glass of tea with milk.
When there was nothing, then she cooked an egg in the
samovar. During one of these preparations for tea, I carried out an experiment about
which I was teased for a long time. I was terribly interested to know the temperature of
the steam which came out of the samovar so energetically – and having been left alone
in the room, took a medical thermometer which had been laying there and stuck it into
the opening from which the steam came. A slight cracking could be heard, and in my
hand I held a thermometer with a snapped-off end.
While I looked at it with
consternation, Mother entered. I was in great trouble, but not too much so, evidently my
interest in the science of the investigation was taken into consideration, but I had to go
to school without tea, because the water had to be taken out of the samovar which had
to be cleaned and the water needed to be boiled anew. At seven thirty we went to
school having been given a breakfast or 5 kopeks. For two kopeks one could buy half a
white roll (franzoli), but for 5 kopeks the school provided a “buffet” for the students, 3
Page 103 paper-thin slices of sausage. How they so slyly managed to cut the sausage so thin
remains their secret. At exactly 2 o’clock school ended, and we went home to have
lunch. Lunch always was tasty and filling, usually with meat, but dessert was not usual.
After lunch Mama went to the sideboard and from the right-hand drawer took out and
gave us a sweet or brought us an apple or pear from the cold-storage room – but she
only gave us one or two at a time. During the plentiful time of the year – in fall – there
were grapes, melons and watermelons on the table. During our childhood there never
was wine or vodka on the table, and for whom would they have been put there: neither
Father nor Mother drank anything. After lunch Father did not permit us to study or read
right away – this was considered detrimental, and one should not work mentally for at
least one half hour. He himself usually took a nap, something Mother almost never did.
After lunch we prepared our homework, music lessons, sometimes a walk, and in the
evening at 7:30 tea with a snack – there never were hot dinners – and at 9, we went to
sleep. We lived a very secluded life – outside the family, which was very numerous,
nobody came to see us. I do not know the reason for this. Was Father by nature
unsociable, which was caused by his youthful experiences, was it the sharp decline
from wealth to a more modest existence where there was not much money for
entertaining, and not enough hands to serve the guests, finally, the difference in social
circles between Father and Mother – it is difficult to judge, probably all these reasons
combined.
disappeared.
But that is how it remained forever, when the reason already had
In the earliest years of my childhood, even before my schooling, I
remember two categories of people visiting my father, equally unpleasant to me. These
evidently were business visits, that is, they occurred usually in the morning. Tall black
people came, spoke a language which was strange to me, and very loudly, but were
dressed in city clothes, and would take their coats off. At other times, people with heavy
faces came, obviously village people in high, coarse shoes and in furs of sheep skin
and the same type of caps, who also spoke in an non-understandable language. These
and the other groups were unpleasant for me, and I, sitting on a rug on the floor or on
the couch (until I was 5 years old I could not move around by myself) and playing with
my toys, waited impatiently when they would finally leave and our usual comfort, which
Page 104 these people ruined for me, would return. They with their loud, guttural talk, the others
with their coarse shoes and sheep skin coats. But what probably bothered me was that
they did not speak Russian. Because there were other visitors but curiously, they did
not bother me. They were Dimitri Petrovich and Maria Egorovna Nogaev. D.P. was a
simple farmer, a former serf of General Ershov, who had managed to become the
leader of the 150-200 families in the village of Beki-Eli in the Northwest of Simferopol. A
rather tall, already gray-haired old man with a gray beard and also always wearing a
sheep skin coat, with heavy shoes and a tall sheep skin hat, but this did not shock me at
all. But truly Uncle Mitri, as we, the children, called him, came more often, knew our
names, tenderly spoke to us and always laughed in a friendly, a little sly way. Little by
little this acqaintance– Father helped Nogaev in his agricultural matters - turned into a
friendship, especially with his wife. Maria Egorovna was Nogaev’s second wife. This
was a tall, well-built, already graying but very pretty woman with a peaceful, iconic face.
She also had been a serf, and we, children, pieced together from the talk of the adults,
that something had happened to her – something voluntary or involuntary, who could
decide this during the serfdom laws – which had forced her to marry a much older
widower with four unpleasant children.
That “something” evidently had left a large
weight on her soul, and we only knew her as a devout and deeply religious woman,
traveling to Jerusalem for worship at the tomb of God, always wearing black clothing
and a white scarf on her head at home, and a black one for going outside. When Maria
Egorovna came to town to fast, she lived with us and slept in the dining room on a
couch – we had not other place for her. During Lent she fasted seriously – her main
food was weak tea or black coffee with bread and halva. Sometimes she slept in the
children’s room, and more than once I saw her praying.. Of course I could never wait
for the end of her prayers, I woke and woke again – and all that time she stood before
the icon and paid obeisance so deeply and slowly, even if it was night and everyone
else was already asleep. We, the children, became so used to her appearance and
presence with us, that we never noted her visits, but, not withstanding her quiet
religiosity, there was something that transferred from her to us and to the servants – a
feeling of obedience. Therefore our parents left the house to her without disquiet; when
Page 105 they went away for a while, they wrote to M.E. to her village, Beki Eli, to come, and she
managed the household during their absence.
As I wrote before, soon after his marriage, Father reconstructed his house. I am
adding here a schematic plan of all reconstructions which he undertook between the
years 1866 and 1898. The pink plan – that is the area of Grandfather’s house, but with
the interior outlay (the kitchen and children’s room) how they were rebuilt by Father.
The room where the parents slept, and where all of us were born, the hall and study
remained the same as they were in Grandfather’s time. The house remained in the
same shape (of course with the addition of the kitchen and the hallway) until the year
1886. In the middle of the children’s room stood a table, and between it and a wall two
parallel, polished, thick railings were fastened, on which I was practicing walking with
crutches (dotted line on the drawing). In 1886 my sister was finishing boarding school
in Odessa and had to return home, where for four years she had only been during
summer vacations. One had to think where to put the young lady, already an adult, and
the whole house needed to be cleaned anyway. And again the renovation began, this
time of Grandfather’s personal rooms; actually they were quite decrepit. The study with
the small oven, where the coffee was kept warm, and where, standing next to the
couch, I cooked apples and nuts on play dishes, never understandintg at all why they
never cooked through as they did in the kitchen, but only got warm, was demolished.
Grandfather’s upholstered easy chair which stood next to the window, and where I had
spent much time during my necessarily sedentary young life on the lap of my father or
mother, disappeared forever into the village. The floors of the hall , on which my toy
cars raced up and down so effortlessly, were also broken up. Out of three rooms, they
made two, the parents moved to live in the children’s room, Edja remained with them,
and my brother and I received a special room, which formerly had a special entrance
from the courtyard, but now had an entry from the back stairs. This room somewhat
comically was between the floors – I will write about this room if and when I succeed to
write about my life.
Page 106 Again, for many years, the house plunged into a peaceful state. My sister married,
Serjezha went away to university, after him I also left, and Edja remained alone in our
room. The parents moved their bedroom into my sister’s room, the children’s room
stood empty – the center of life had moved to the village a long time ago. But time did
not only age the house – in time it turned the old buildings on Sevastopolski Street into
such a state that it could no longer be tolerated. In the year 1896 Father decided to
mortgage the estate in the bank, and for the money to rebuild the front of our house on
Sevastopolsky Street. The fate of our grandfather’s house was decided.
In the very beginning of the year 1896, totally unexpectedly, Father came to visit us
in Moscow on the way to Petersburg. In our family such a trip was so unprecedented,
that we awaited an explanation with the greatest interest. The following occurred: in
every Russian town there existed a so-called “The highest approved plan”. It consisted
thus: a grid of red lines, so to speak, was placed on the existing plan of the town, which
showed each change and improvement which was deemed positive to be made in the
placement or improvement of streets due to the re-building of already existing
structures. This plan became a local law. When the plan was put together with the new
buildings marked by my father, it became clear that the old little stores from the corner
to the gates of the house were 2 or 3 arshin (56 or 84 inches) removed from the
imperative red line, and had to be moved forward. This of course was only pleasant for
the homeowner, but this rather small platform by which his property was increased,
was considered owned by the town, as was the whole sidewalk, and one had to pay for
it to the town. Of course Father was not objecting to this, but the city government and
also the duma decided an a totally unrealistic payment which he had to make. He
became heated, said a few unpleasantries about which he himself was sorry, but did not
want to give in. We understood totally. Evidently one of the administrators tried to get
even for an old matter – Father often was in
sometimes less than decent officials
opposition to the uncultured and
of that time– and Father was angry and felt
himself to have been unjustly treated by an old member of the duma. Of course this
was not about the money; the sum was rather small, about one thousand rubles, but the
Page 107 approval of the plan was delayed. A way out had to be found, and he went to the
Ministry of Internal Affairs with a complaint and a compromise solution was finally found.
I am writing this unimportant episode to characterize our father: God forbid if his feeling
of honor or justice was offended. Undoubtedly, all these unpleasantnesses and the
need to complain to the Ministry about the very representatives of the duma of which he
had been a member for so many years, in the end even the expenses of the trip were
by far greater than the sum that was demanded from him – but that is how he was. He
proved that the actions in this matter were unjust!
When in the beginning of the year 1896, I, after the end of the graduation
examinations was forced to return to the homeland because of ‘culpable testimony’ and
came back to Simferopol, instead of the old stores, there stretched a marvelous white
wall. I did not even have the right to travel from Simferopol to the village, in my soul it
was gray, and even my excellent diploma gave me little joy, and I began to help Father
as best as II could. Toward Fall we completed the building, and in January resplendid,
high and light accommodations opened: a bakery, a coffee shop, a barber shop, a
cheap eating place, and the second story was enriched by a Crimean restaurant
offering new items. I still did not have permission to leave Simferopol and myself was
so immersed in the building work, became so interested in it and would not have left
even if I could have, without finishing our apartment. The plan for it was drawn by the
town architect Vlad. Zaionkovski at the same time as the planfor the first building, but
together with Mother we revolted and achieved many changes, primarily the
enlargement of the footprint of the apartment by moving the kitchen and second
stairway to the addition.
(For the drawing see addendum)
I will not describe the process of building, I will only say that I poured all my newly
acquired knowledge and all my thoughts and feelings during the year of the work into it.
Father did not hinder me, and even though he did not agree with me many times about
Page 108 “the luxury”, but seeing the joy which it gave to Mother and me, did not object. Actually,
our desires were very modest, but according to the standards of those days and of the
Simferopol society, they widely exceeded those of the average apartment. The floors
were parquet, all ceilings were painted with oil paint but did not offensively shine like
bathrooms or hospitals, but were of a non-glare waxy color. The doors and windows
were much thicker than the usual ones, and therefore did not knock about with each
gust of wind, but softly moved on three hinges. Their handles were of carved red
copper and had been made especially in Odessa, with Father’s initials. The stairs to the
entrance, instead of the usual stone steps, were made of iron, but were faced with
polished oak. How modest all this seems now, and how different it was at that time
from the usual apartments! But my ideal at that time – Grandfather’s large house –
remained unattainable. No interior embellishments could equal the sweep of the stately
house, the huge windows and doors would be ridiculous and absurd in a bourgeois
apartment. It remained only to do what was possible and appropriate.
Thus the
youngest son of Sergei Ivanovich, and, I immodestly say, his grandson stopped
halfway: out of the modest original apartment of 1568 square feet they built a 3430
square one, but stayed far away from Grandfather’s palaces which they saw as his
ruin and downfall. The son, having learned from experience, stayed far away from
those luxuries and always strove to stand firmly on his feet, the grandson would gladly
have walked in his grandfather’s footsteps, but did not have his creative talent and
therefore kept to his father’s tactics, but all three were moved aside by fate: one –
personally, and the others – en masse.
We began to tear down the old house very early – in February, so that we could
move into the new house before winter – given the Crimean climate this was possible
and do-able. The old house was uncomfortable and altogether had outlived its time, but
when I walked through it after all the windows and doors had been removed, the roof
was being dismantled above, and the wind rattled the remaining spaces, my soul was
saddened. It is difficult to see any death, and here, because of our desire, a building
was dying which still could have lived much longer, and which had honestly served our
Page 109 family, and which had guarded its peace and happiness; in the old house there was not
a single death during our residence there. For me the destruction of the old house was
very educational. It was said that it had been built by some Greeks, and it was clear
that it was built by people who feared earthquakes and knew how to best guard the
building against them. The house was disproportionally tall due to the special mid-story,
and was very carefully connected by thick oak boards placed into the walls, the wedges
tightly tied together lengthwise. In this manner, the whole house was kept together as if
in a frame, in several rows, and this of course was to help the stone surface in the case
of lateral blows during an earthquake. In our time, earthquakes had been forgotten and
not
thought
about
by
the
people
in
the
Crimea,
but
the
year1927
definitely reminded them of earthquakes. I heard that especially on the southern shore
many buildings were ruined. Our house survived. It was whole and occupied by some
German troops even in the year 1943. Did the following storms spare it? I do not know.
The house was completed in November of the year 1897, it contained only the
parents’ apartment and the store of Zapiev – the son of D.A. Zapiev who had had a
store there before the year 1844. I went away to Petersburg and soon received a
telegram from almost all our relatives who were present at its religious dedication. When
I returned in the year 1906 to Simferopol, Father and I tore down the old storehouses
and granaries which he had built deep into the courtyard, and rebuilt them with new
ones. After Father’s death, the descendants built a 2-story house with stores on the
bottom and apartments on the upper floor, on the Fontansky Street. That is the house
which we left in the year 1920.
II Agach-Eli
It probably was Kottaire de Hell, a French geologist, who, upon visiting the Crimea,
still under the rule of Czarina Ekaterina II, was the first to leave a wonderful essay about
its geology, and very observantly compared its geological structure to that of a thin book
Page 110 standing and falling over in the lower shelf of a bookcase.The first book, the biggest and
fattest, is standing with its spine on top. This - Jaila –Katyrdatch with its elongation on
the right side, long ago slid into the sea and so deeply, that there was never a good
beach on the southern shore. But the remaining side is so solid and strong that it
withstands the weight of the second book, which is no longer standing, but is lying
down. On this second book, lies a book that is partly leaning, then a fourth, and the
last, lying almost flat, passes into the endless steppe, and with its not-so-high clay walls
ends in the far-away shining ring of the sea. Along the collapse of the individual books,
gaily and quickly, and always from East to West, run the small Crimean rivers: Belbek,
Katcha, Alma and Bulganak, one cannot call them rivers – in the summer, when their
waters are important for the watering of gardens and vineyards, one can cross each one
of them without wetting one’s feet.
But if these three little rivers are fed from the
medium-high Crimean mountains, then our poor Bulganak did not even have this
meager support and practically was a brook about 1 meter across, totally dry in summer
and only sometimes flowing with murky water which collected from groundwater. Hills
and mountains which divide Crimea’s main plains are covered with forests or bushes,
but the covers of the last sections are dry and joyless steppes. Their foundations were
deep clay deposits from the 4th period, colored brown by a poor amount of humus which
had been growing there for centuries. This swells during the rainy season and provides
untold amounts of dirt on the surface but does not let water pass through to the surface
- and it runs aimlessly into the sea, without even providing groundwater. The subsoil is
often made up of a weak conglamorate of marl which, if it is removed by plowing, easily
falls apart, or, during the wild north-west winds, will turn into small pieces among which
only a forest or small bushes can grow and provides no elevation whatsoever, not even
a small forest, against which the waves, full of moisture from the sea, could break. And
rain falls only near Simferopol, not on the dried-out steppe. In this joyless region lay our
Agach-Eli. Simferopol lies in the hollow between two low mountains. If you leave it and
go straight north, difficult during sunsets - you must rise above a low ridge of limestone,
consisting of several small mountains, whose left halves appeared as having been torn
off and are starkly white among the plants covering them, low Crimean oaks, and the
Page 111 left halves softly descend to the foot of the next precipice. The same Kottaire de Hell
very aptly called this chain “small teeth of dust” and they actually appeared like a body
with gigantic teeth especially if you look at them while driving into Simferopol. But if
you transverse this chain from the side of the Budke estate, there was the end of the
mountains and you rolled down to the very sea.
Therefore the horses, and their
owners, more easily came from town than drive into town! Really, on the way there
were two more so-called “mountains”, but the first one was only a “beam” as we said in
the South, across which it was rather sharp and steep, to which the entrance and exit
were also steep and difficult until, many years later, the township straightened them and
made them into a highway. The second one also was not a mountain, but a descent
into the valley, also quite steep and usually washed out by the rains. This descent cost
one old woman her life, and cost me a broken collarbone when the coach overturned,
but the old woman had been driven by her drunk husband, and I fell out at night , and
probably therefore we did not get around to building a decent descent on this
“mountain”.
The first mountain was called a large or deep beam, and lay exactly
between Simferopol and Kronental, the second was the Kolumbetelski Mountain. From
the top of this “mountain” the view to the far-away Bulganaksky valley opened up,
including Kronental, which lay about 7 versts (ca11.6 miles) below. In my youth you
would not see a single domicile, a single tree from the Budke estate to the valley – you
transverse the steppe. But you became acquainted with the entire valley immediately:
at that time a small Tatar village- Kolushber-Eli - lay at the descent, with a pond of
standing water, behind it Bodrak, the estate of Kovalevsky, then Kojash, then the
property of Dr. Geiman (after Numan), then the Tatar village Agach-Eli and finally
Kronental. In this part of the valley the Bulganak flowed even during the summer, and
therefore its shores were, even though with large interruptions, home to the pussy
willows, those pretty, modest plants, so useful in the household.
Here and there,
sometimes singly or in gardens, groups of vineyards or wild woods of tall poplars; along
the Kojashsky road rows of acacias, planted by Numan, stretched, but the only large
objects, visible from everywhere, were huge black poplars from Agach-Eli, then already
measuring two spans in circumference. They probably gave the estate its name, in the
Page 112 Tatar language “agach” means “wood” and “eli” is the usual designation of a village or
settlement. Such was the view from the Kolumbetelski Mountain in the year 1880. How
much it had changed by 1920 – you know yourselves.
Agach-Eli, according to some stories, belonged to someone called Murz, on whose
land there spread out a village of the same name. Through a sale or some way or
another, the land went from Murz to a brigadier general Trigani. One can imagine his
housekeeping by looking at the buildings which existed during his ownership. The road
to the estate was through a side street which separated the estate from the village.
Sharply turning to the right at the spot where there later was an iron gate, the coach
rolled to a circular driveway to the general’s house. Having let out the riders, the coach
continued further, skirted the house and came to the courtyard, where the horsestalls
and coach sheds were. During our time, both of these buildings remained in the same
condition as they were during Trigani’s time. Besides them and on the same land there
were later a winter room and all buildings No.3, and there stood a not very large building
where the gardeners and workers lived – and that was all. There also was a relatively
small animal shed with overhangs, covered with straw (on the same place where the
pear garden was later) and a half-ruined shed where tobacco was dried (on the land of
the shed and forge). Evidently the whole household was centered on the garden and
on wine making, that is, in the coach shed stood a large Tarapan made of one piece
and brought from Bodrak (on the Alma river, where there were famous limestone
deposits) with great difficulty, and also a very good grape press. The Tarapan, you may
remember it, because later we lugged it to the wine producing area – was a rectangular
tub measuring 4 arshin (112”) long 3 (78”) wide and 2 (56”)deep into which we poured
the harvested grapes and then pressed them with our feet. There was no field work, or
else it was totally negligible.
Evidently some tobacco was grown, that is, I still
remember the tobacconist Bekir, who was still there during my father’s time. The
tobacco occupied the whole courtyard beginning with the entrance up to the ditch.
Thus was the general’s household. But his house was very fine. It was not large – it
only contained 6 rooms – the interior was of raw brick (kalyb in the Tartar language) –
Page 113 but of very good proportions and somehow very homey. Trigani was married to the
daughter of Admiral Stansokovich, commander of the Black Sea Fleet. In Sevastopol
this fleet had naval workshops and the doors and windows of the house were made
there. They were made of Crimean birch (kar-agacha, that is, black wood, in Tatar) and
then polished and covered with lacquer.
After the death of the general, his wife and three sons were his heirs. The oldest
one of them was Michail Nikolaevich Trigani, later gaining such notoriety during the trial
of “Government for the people” members after the murder of Czar Aleksander II. As I
have already explained, at that time the Crimea contained more than a few hotheads,
about whose beneficial or harmful role in the history of Russia one can debate
endlessly.
But neither the general’s wife nor his sons were interested in the rather
small and remote estate; the oldest son, a student, was busy in Petersburg with his
comrades, and it was decided to sell the estate. The buyer lived next door and for a
long time already had been waiting for the moment when the ruined Triganis would
have to sell their estate. It was Nikolaii Sevastjanovich Schnaider – the natural uncle of
my mother. He already was so rich that he could put down enough personal money to
cover the whole sum, but totally unexpectedly the young Trigani balked. He hated his
neighbors – colonials from Kronental totally, especially Nikolaii Sevastjanovich, and
categorically refused to sell him the estate. My parents could not hope to compete with
the rich uncle, but Trigani himself, having found out that Father would have liked to buy
the estate, and eager to conclude the sale, offered him to buy Agach-Eli with a very
lengthy time for payments.
I already wrote how eagerly Father looked for an
occupation. Now he could obtain it, and the parents’ hesitation did not last long. They
gathered what they could, borrowed as much as was possible, and the remainder
Trigani was willing to receive gradually. Getting ahead of myself, I will say that Father
rather quickly paid the whole amount, and throughout his life he talked about how
quickly and without great formalities this sale by Trigani took place.
And thus in the winter of the year 1879-80, during one of those especially cold
Page 114 winters which occur every thirty years, and truly occurred during my life in 1916 and
1942 – my parents totally unexpectedly became land owners. Their new and hard life
began. They had bought the estate – but it was in such a state! There was almost no
livestock- or farm equipment, the buildings were neglected. The formerly varnished
windows barely hung on broken hinges, most of the glass was broken, and the frames
were in such a state that a part of them had to be renewed , and the remaining ones
were not revarnished but simply painted. In the middle of the dining room stood a stage
coach, which “the young gentlemen”, as they were called by the gardener Afanasi
working there, lugged into the house in order to repaint it whenever they felt like it.
There was no kitchen at all in the house, the food for the master and mistress was
cooked in the servants’ kitchen and brought over for them through the courtyard.The
poor new owners did not know what to tackle first, and there was no money because
they had used all their resources in order to buy the estate. There was no lack of
worries, and Nikolai Sevastjanovich did not lose hope that the new owners would also
burn through their money and that his beloved Agach-Eli would change hands again
soon. But Father was already accustomed to battles throughout many years, the city
house brought a sizable profit, and next to him stood Mother, who already had shown
herself as a hard worker in the village. And the first thing they had to do was battle with
the German neighbors. Between Agach-Eli and Kronental was a country road which
was not noted on the Agach-Eli map. Therefore it had cut through the land of the
colonists, and they were the only ones who needed it. But according to Russian laws of
adjacent lands, the boundary consisted of two furrows somewhat distant from each
other, and usually the road would go between them. Probably this was also the case
here. However, our dear neighbors, making use of the neglect of the owners of A.
gradually moved the road ever closer to the Triganis’ land, and since the dividing
furrows were erased long ago, they also plowed the land up to the road. During the first
year, however, Father summoned the land surveyor in order to clarify the borders, and
when the latter dug up the furrows on the original plan, he set new boundaries which
turned out to be on the usurped land and many desjatins (acres) of it could have been
claimed by Father right away. Of course he did not do this, but nevertheless the whole
Page 115 colony hated the new neighbor. And this battle lasted forever. The only rescue from
these “aggressors” (at that time we still did not know this word that is so modern now)
was to systematically plow the land in front of the boundary – even the Germans did not
dare drive on land planted with wheat. But in total they were disgusting neighbors.
Exactly today is Kirchweih – the kind, gentle fall festival, for which the Germans
prepared way in advance. Our neighbors also prepared for it, but not only they, but also
our family, though not German, each in their own way. The young people of the colony
wanted to gather as much money as possible for drinking, and we had, 2-3 weeks
previously, ordered the shepherds not to let the animals graze near the German border,
and to always be careful. The thing was, that two times during the first years, the
Germans, riding on horses, chased our sheep onto their steppes and from there into the
colony, and then claimed that our sheep were on their steppe and that we had to pay for
damages. The amount of money which we had to pay was not very high, since at that
time not much grass grew on the Crimean steppe, but for the whole herd it came to 5060 rubles. The main thing was that the Germans were on horseback and chased the
sheep with intolerable speed, and the result was a high loss. And only such measures
of carefulness could save the herds from the predatory neighbors and they slowly
stopped using this method to drink at the expense of their neighbors. But our relations
with our neighbors never were friendly. Just the opposite, other and closer neighbors –
Tatars, were impeccable. The first hut in the village stood about one hundred feet from
an iron gate about which I have already spoken, and the whole village lay beyond that,
and never did we have the smallest misunderstanding, not one quarrel about
economics, or about the garden, the vegetable garden, even though the road to our mill
went along our garden, and it was never fenced in nor guarded by a wall, but only by
the Bulganak, which the old and the young could cross with one jump. When Father
bought the estate there was not a single well with drinking water, and there was only a
deep and uncomfortable well in front of the terrace and its water had a mineral taste and
it was only used for washing and for watering the horses and livestock. Water had to be
taken from a well located on land which was eliminated from the estate after the survey
dividing Trigani’s land and that of the Tatars.
Our Agach-Eli had an unwritten
Page 116 arrangement allowing us to take water from this well, and for many years we used this
arrangement and this never caused any difficulties or arguments. They were good,
honest neighbors, and even the Revolution of the year 1917 did not ruin them.
Everybody grabbed our houses, but only the Tatars did not.
It would be boring for you if I were to describe step by step the work our parents did
to create our Agach-Eli. I write “our” because not many traces were left from the Murzi
and Trigani years. But our parents had more youthful energy and desire to work than
knowledge of agriculture. Both were born and raised in a city, and even though Mother
spent several years in a village with her father, they relied more on the advice of others
and on learning from their mistakes. First we had to somehow settle into our personal
accommodations and to renovate the house and the other two buildings sufficiently so
that we could live in them; they began to “keep house”. They reduced their needs to the
utmost. In the room next to the hall, where there was an entrance to the basement,
they installed a small iron stove and Mother cooked on this so that a cook did not need
to be hired. The room on the other side of the hall, where during your time there was
the study of Uncle Edi, was converted into a storage room for flour, salt, baked bread
and all other items necessary for feeding the workers and Mother could give out the
essentials without having to go outside the house. It became clear that first of all one
had to devise something which would make it possible for the estate to have some
income. Sheep, cows, horses and all necessary utensils needed to be bought, but
there was no room for any of them. So Father built a shed for the sheep. But he built
in a manner in which then, and even now, nobody ever had built it – tall, with a roof of
solid beams and rafters. Later he spoke to me of this building. “We only had one pair
of horses and we had to haul lumber from town ourselves. And so I arrive with the
coachman, in the back they load the lumber, and the coachman sits in the front. And I
do not have the heart to sit on the beams myself, and therefore I walk from town on foot
and only afte the town I go and sit on the lumber and drive home. The walk from town
until the ride on the coach was truly not easy!” But the shed turned out well, and Father
loved this, his building. Later it became a cow barn and in the end it was Peter’s (N.)
Page 117 room. Parallel with this, Father built a new facility on the same space (this is, in the
pear garden) where an old one had been, but it was covered with straw and quite
evidently was a new structure. The first-bought livestock was housed there. And here
Father searched for something especially good. At that time he more than anything
else needed oxen for work; working oxen was a gray Ukrainian breed, large with tall
legs and therefore taking large steps. Father went to Sheichlar’s estate which at that
time belonged to the mother of Nad. Iza Schlee, Anastasia Efimovna Kobez, and was
famous for its exemplary household, and bought about 12 oxen and cows. These were
marvelous animals with huge horns and very handsome despite their enormity. But
here also failure awaited him. A plague attacking horned livestock killed a large part of
the new herd, and soon the parents lost the desire to raise pedigreed livestock.
(For a diagram of the buildings see addendum).
In the course of several years Father constructed a granary for the bakery and
flour, a good kitchen, Grandmother’s pantry and a laundry, and on top, bins for grain
(N.4), a new kitchen for the workers (N.3) on the same spot where the same buildings
had stood during the Trigani time. Later this building was restored for winter visits, a
room for Kristina, an apartment for the gardener and a dairy. At the same time a small
hen house was built (N.5), and later changed to a pantry. Later an ice house was
added, a rock had been found underneath, so they just had to dig a hole and walls were
put up only on the upper floor. The problem of where to obtain ice was solved by
building a temporary dam on the small river so that the water would widely spill onto the
meadow and when it froze, all the workers stopped all other work and quickly cut the ice
and put it into the ice house. But during some years the ice did not develop and then
they filled the ice house with snow. The mill was also included in the buildings of the
early years. In those years the water in the Bulganak was still sufficient for four entities:
the Kojash, the Tatars, our Agach-Eli and Kronental – they all could work with the water.
All the water could not be used for watering the gardens, or else the livestock would
have remained without drinking water. However, the old mill refused to function, and to
Page 118 renovate it was totally impossible. Father turned to the Frenchman, Malifo,a technician
who lived in one of the existing mills near town, and he worked out a magnificent plan
which increased the diameter of the water wheel to 9 arshin (252”), that is almost twice
that of the previous one. In this way, even during a minimal amount of water in our little
river, it could move two grinding stones, one for ordinary grinding, and one for coarse
grinding. Equipment for the preparation of millet was also installed, but it was almost
never used because this grass was seldom planted in our region. The mill was not only
built well and practically, but I am tempted to say, with love: the master did not spare the
expense or wood, the straps of silk, were bought in Odessa – first class -
Malifo
furnished excellent drawings and they were executed by the miller Grigorii Lysakov who
worked cleanly and diligently. From early childhood on I enjoyed watching masters at
work, and here I could not tear myself away from the disks which later were turned into
moving pulleys. The mill became well-known and it was used by people from all over
the region. The miller was the same old one still from Trigani times, Jakov Dvorzhak,
an old Czech with a huge family. We built a new house for him, and it began to look like
a separate farmstead with its own vegetable garden, trees, ducks, chickens and pigs.
The yard was always full of ground items, and for a long time was the object of our
outings. It was also the source of income for our estate, and all was well until old Jakov
died, and his place was taken by his son Franz who loved to drink. The reputation of
the mill still held, but gradually there was less water, one had to wait for the grinding
longer and longer, and therefore small steam mills began to appear which received their
power from locomobiles during steam shortages. Franz also died, the mill became
neglected, Dvorzhak’s brother-in-law who worked on the mill, Timofeii Sdanko, was an
adroit and clever fellow who at the end married one of Franz’s sisters; with Father’s
permission, he himself installed a locomobile, did not pay attention and the whole
second floor of our mill burned down. It was renovated, but without any kind of love,
that is, it became clear that soon the mill would only work for the estate itself and the
closest villages. We were already debating whether it could be used to obtain electrical
energy, but the revolution decreed otherwise.
Page 119 For a while the building activities of my father stopped, and arose anew after the
building of the town house. After this second period, during which I no longer took an
active part, the following were built: a winemaking site with a very good wine cellar
underneath, strengthened with iron beams (after a plan by A.V. Konrady), (N.11) a new
poultry house, (N.7), a fully rebuilt ice house; a long hall with a kitchen and bathroom at
the end was added to the house, the wooden terrace was rebuilt with stone and
columns which were brought from the ruins of Grandfather’s house in Simferopol, and
finally, a new barracks(N.9). I forgot to also mention a new barn for the working horses
(N.14). To the building work one must add 6 wells which were dug in various locations
and which were outfitted with a variety of water-carrying machinery and ways to bring
water into the house and dairy and a separating faucet to serve in the workers’ kitchen,
the pig- and poultry houses. From the old Trigani well (N.22) water also flowed into and
old trough (N.23), in the summer only for the horses in our stable, and in the winter for
all livestock. A water pipe to the dairy was also built for the cement basin in the pear
garden (N.23), for watering the dwarf pears which were planted there. The same pipes
also fed a fountain in the basin, (N.21).
Field crop farming always was the weakest side on our estate. I already wrote about
the poor soil, and the lack of rain in our areas. But this was not all. Agach-Eli was 830
desjatin (2,241 acres). But the Bulganak cut across the estate in such a way that 130
desjatin (351 acres) lay on one side of the little river and were of such a steep elevation
that they could not be plowed but it was only possible to ride to it after we built a special
road in a serpentine fashion on the steepest incline. In this manner, it was very difficult
to plow and sow on that land, and totally unprofitable since so much time had to be
spent going there and back. Further excluding the land occupied by the slope and the
right bank, also not suitable for planting, only about 600 desjatin (1,620 acres) of
workable land remained. But working it continuously meant to quickly turn the whole
estate into mush (above I wrote why) and therefore the land was cultivated only 3 or 4
years and we alternated in this way: land lies fallow, wheat, barley, oats – and then 810 years of rest. The plowing was not much – 60-70 desjatin (162-189 acres), seldom
Page 120 produced more than 60-80 puds (2160-2880 lb) per desjatin, and therefore the profit,
with the exclusion for the pay and keep of the laborers, was such that one could not
even talk about it seriously. Basically, the farming was done in order to feed and pay
the workers and the working animals who were mostly occupied in other areas of the
household. So little by little this was looked upon in this way, and only brother Edja,
when he began to manage Agach-Eli after Father’s death, was still hoping to achieve
something else, but for him there was no more time for this. In reality, an old worker was
in charge of all this, and Father did not even ride out to the steppes every day during
cultivating times. Of course you remember the old worker Michail (I think Schweiger
was his last name), who worked for us about twenty years and who lived with his family
in the single home (N.16). A part of the land – very small- was rented out to Agach-Elian
Tatars.
Sheep always were a debated question in our household. We all agreed that sheep
trample everything in our dry climate and cause great harm to the steppe. But there
were many reasons why we decided not to destroy them. As I wrote already, a part of
the estate lay in such a manner that it was only possible to exploit it by letting the sheep
graze there.
After destroying the sheep, one would have to increase the planting, but
the difficulty of reaching that land was also clear to us. After all, the sheep provided a
profit through the sale of the lambs, the wool and milk which we disposed of to be made
into sheep cheese, the expense of hiring a shepherd. And finally, they provided meat for
the workers. If there were no sheep, one would have to send to town for meat, that is,
2-3 times a week meat was obligatory. And therefore Father did not destroy the sheep
but only decreased their number when, after a few especially dry years we had to rent a
‘dacha’ – that is, chase the sheep during the summer to a rather distant rented land,
while one’s own land rested and again covered itself with grass instead of dust. As I
wrote before, Father built a magnificent shed for them (N.13) but the sheep began to die
in it for an unknown reason.
Later,
when we began to understand more about
agricultural matters, it became clear to us that it was simply an epidemic of anthrax, but
at that time everyone thought it was too hot for the sheep in the magnificent shed, and
Page 121 then we built a new, common shed with straw roofs – and the dying stopped.
But
something that will interest you –according to an age-old custom, a good shepherd will
never let it die quietly – and if he sees that it hesitates and does not eat, he simply cuts
its throat, cuts off its hide, and brings the meat into the household, but if there is much
dying and the meat is not needed, he cuts the carcass into two halves lengthwise, salts
them heavily and hangs them out into the sun. We had a Tatar name for this: “kokatch”,
and these dried kokatch hung in the sun on crossbeams of the roof until a buyer came
and took them away. When we as children wanted to eat something at an unusual time,
we would sneak into the shed and cut for ourselves as much of this wonderfully salty
and very fat meat, which had been hanging in the sun, as we wanted. And never once
did any of us become ill from this horrible anthrax! Hello to science but also hello to
disinfection by sunlight, and healthy childish appétit that was not destroyed by too much
knowledge. I must admit that during discussions about the pro and contra of sheep, I
always took their side. This of course is not very cultured, but if I could relive a mild,
warm evening in May in Agach-Eli, where approaching from the road, one could see
from afar the wonderful hides of the old females with their beautiful black or white little
lambs and hear the varied -voiced choir of the lost sheep – mothers and lambs
searching for each other - then I would gladly give away a large chunk, a very large
chunk of all my not-so-large culture.
It is quite clear that the dairy business could not be especially profitable for us under
our conditions. In the beginning during the period of gray cows and random purchasing
– of course nobody would sell a good cow – there was so little milk that all of it was
used for the household, and to preserve it in any way at all, not having an ice house,
was not possible during the summer heat. After the ice house was built, pitchers stood
in rows on shelves, and Mother herself would go down the stairs which sometimes
were covered with ice, and gather some cream. In looks and taste the milk resembled
what is nowadays called “Magermilch” (skim milk) and was used by us or the workers
for kasha, from the cream they made sour cream and from this they churned butter. A
definite break in the whole dairy business happened in 1894. I remember this affair so
Page 122 well because at that time I was in Moscow for my second year at the university and
Brother Serjezha was in his fourth, and our parents decided to spend Christmas with
us. Our sister and her husband came with them. We settled all of them in furnished
rooms – Borchester near the Nikitski gates, and this Christmas remained among our
best memories. During that time there was a meeting of naturalists and physicians in
Moscow, and Father registered as a member of the meeting and enjoyed going to
various sessions.
During the sessions a variety of trips were organized, and among
them was a trip near Moscow to the farm of the famous dairy merchant Bereshchagin.
And then our mother and Franz decided to also travel there, and returned simply
enchanted. First of all, they saw a well-managed farm, good livestock, separators and
butter churns of a new type, good and convenient utensils.
Right there at
Bereshchagin’s they bought and ordered what they could, and returned home with
totally new ideas about dairy farming. And in our farm and in Kojash, appeared new
dairies with cement floors, running water, steam boilers in which the new utensils were
boiled, and mainly, a separator and new butter churn. The whole bothersome process
with the cream fell away now, and the just-extracted milk went to the separator, and the
butter no longer came from the sour cream but from the cream. Everything became
simple and clean. The only item remaining was to obtain more milk, and this proved to
be more difficult, of course. At that time the provincial and local assemblies began to
take measures to increase livestock, stud bulls were provided. May God judge the
assemblies and all their agronomists and zoological technicians and us, the land
owners and activists, for all the dumb things we undertook in this matter. Only now,
having lived in the various places from which we received our Simmentalers,
Schweitzers and Algauers (breeds of cows) with enthusiasm, and having seen local
pastures and – especially last year in Kempten – the care taken with these pastures,
thanks to which they provide endless grass and hay, I understood how inept the idea
was to improve our cows who grazed on the dried-out steppes, chasing every green
leaf, already dried out into ready-to-eat hay, with the aristocratic cows grazing on those
raw and always rainy and fertilized pastures. The livestock undoubtedly improved in its
external appearance, obtaining black, gray or chestnut spots from its aristocratic
Page 123 fathers, but there was nowhere from which to increase milk. And of course we also
understood this and began feverishly to plant feed beets, to order and cook potatoes,
plant more pumpkins, corn, and hoped to make silage of them together with the ears –
in “the American manner”, but we could not produce rain or fresh grass;
in some
cases, our half-breed Holland and Schweitzer cows still remained within the sphere of
profit like the “German” cows did. “German” cows were considered the local breed,
usually dark brick-red, which were bred by the Menotite colonists in the Melitopol region
for milking. These cows gave a rather decent amount of milk , but it contained a very
low percentage of fat.
We probably should have started out with these already
acclimatized cows, and not be entranced by the Simmentalers. I do not know why, but
Uncle Franz as well as Mother stopped at the Hollandese breed (white-black-chestnut),
and Franz was not satisfied with only breeding, but imported several pure-blooded cows
of that type and in that way improved his herd immediately. The matter moved on an
altogether satisfying path, but already before our collapse it became evident that a large
percentage of the Kojash herd suffered a tubercular reaction.
Of course it was not possible to compare Agach-Eli with Kojash regarding the
number of livestock, the expenses for food for the livestock, and not for the
opportunities for riches, but nevertheless Mama achieved marvelous results not in
quantity, but in quality. The separator and new utensils made it easier for her to keep
the most pedantic cleanliness in the dairy operation, and in the dairy one could never
find not only no dirt but also no dust. The windows were covered with screens against
the flies, the containers, washed and steamed, also stood on boards and were covered
with curtains. We enlarged the ice house significantly and changed its construction in a
way that divided it into two unequal parts, perpendicular with the wall that had two large
windows covered tightly with brick. The large part was loaded full of ice during the
winter and then closed tightly. In the smaller part was a comfortable stairway (brought
from the old town house), by which the milk, butter, cream, etc were brought down into
the cellar and put onto shelves. Under such conditions, the ice remained till autumn,
and the storage was enough for the produce to keep fresh indefinitely. All together this
Page 124 and Mother’s untiring supervision led to the fact that Agach-Eli butter became famous,
and was bought up immediatey. It was not even sold out, but given out, that is, in
Shikiman’s store was a list of clients who subscribed in advance for “Nalbandov’s butter.
One must readily admit that Mama’s butter kept its fresh flavor much longer than any
other butter.” This was so evident that everyone gladly paid for it more, and according
to an agreement between Mother and Shikiman, she always got 5 kopeks more per
pound than the market price. Everybody talked about this, everyone wanted to find out
her secret about preparing butter, but she only laughed gaily and slyly, and assured
everybody that she had no secret at all. And truly, even during winter months, when, as
is well known, butter loses its yellow color because of the absence of green feed, and a
harmless yellow color or carrot juice usually is added to the butter, Mother never did
this, and her white butter was considered fancier than the yellow one. And then one
summer day, early in the morning, the senior specialist of food science, K.V. Dal arrived
in Agach-Eli - such a knowledgable man who enjoyed our admiration – and asked
Mother to permit him to be present during the preparation of butter. Mother of course
agreed gladly. In Dal’s presence, the evening and morning cream was brought from the
ice house, poured into the butter churn and then the usual process was carried out,
including the washing of the butter. The butter seemed the same as usual and Mother
brought a large piece of it to Dal for analysis. What this analysis showed did not interest
us, because we knew that there really was no secret, and everything was due to
Mother’s tireless cleanliness. In this manner, on the face of it, culturally the dairy was a
success, but if one carefully added up the expenses of planting feed beets and corn, the
feeding of the cows with fresh grass and the tireless work, there remained no noticeable
profit from the dairy – so small was the amount of milk from our cows. And here I only
speak of additional feed, and do not touch the question of sheds, hay and the bedding,
which was used mainly for the cows.
Already during the last few years during which I spent very little time in Agach-Eli,
Mother wanted to build a new cow shed, definitely with her own money, and it actually
was built according to the design by Edi. The shed stood behind the old shed, turned
Page 125 out very well and comfortable, but somehow did not remain in my memory, and I cannot
reproduce it on my drawing. At that time my head was filled with other things.
Garden. During Trigani’s time the garden took up the same space as it did in our
time, that is, the whole plain which was watered by the diversion of water from the
Bulganak from the plains to the mill, measuring a little more than 8 desjatin (21.6 acres).
Like the whole estate, the garden was in a very neglected state, with many bare areas,
and the hard winter of 1879-80 also brought much devastation, because for many years
after that, fallen branches and tree trunks served as heating material; I remember apple
and pear tree trunks from the devasted trees. As with everything else, here too it was
necessary to start almost from scratch, and in an area about which neither Father nor
Mother knew anything and where they had to rely on a gardener for everything. As it
already occurred in earlier years, they happened upon a person, who in essence
created our garden. This was Ivan Semenovich Kabzev. I now believe that he also did
not distinguish himself with a particularly deep knowledge, but he loved his work, was a
very decent person and not stupid. He served about fifteen years with us, we grew up
along side this man, and knew his story well. He descended from Kantonists, that is,
children of soldiers, whom one tried to separate from their parents in order to raise them
in boarding schools of the military type, and then to have more sergeants and corporals
who are removed from ordinary life and have nobody in the whole world. As you can
see, the story repeats itself and there is nothing new under the moon. He told us many
things about such a school, about maneuvers and pretend battles, where children even
shot out of guns loaded with sand and sometimes shot out each other’s eyes. So he
grew up lonely, then learned for a short time in the Nikitits garden near Yalta, became a
gardener, got married, separated from his wife, and then came to us where he remained
until his death. He was a capable person, blasted rocks with gunpowder which he
produced himself, and during the winter, with the help of a Tatar from Agach-Eli, he
prepared stones for Father’s buildings and fences. He himself built the serpentine road
which I described earlier, and fervently searched for sources of water in the environs.
One thing was a sadness: he was an alcoholic. During normal times he did not speak
Page 126 much and was even somewhat stern, but when he was tipsy he was funny and told us
much about himself and his always fantastic dreams. But when he drank, he drank for
several days and was simply disgusting. Fortunately this did not happen often, so that
he was a good worker, but one could not give him the keyes to the carriage shed, where
at that time our wine casks stood before they were sold, and the procedures necessary
with the wine he always had to accomplish in Mother’s presence, but even so he
managed to slyly get soundly drunk.
It was the same Ivan Semenovich who planted our whole garden, lay the
canalization for irrigating (this was not such a simple job, because at that time nobody
had thought that there was such a thing as a level in the world, all was done by eye)
and totally covered the so-called upper ditch with a ring of poplars and in this way
created a very efficient defense for the garden against the north-east winds.
You
probably remember that wall of tall, straight poplars along the whole garden? The
parents also made many mistakes in their choice of types of apples which they planted;
the nursery person often warned them, and willingly or unwillingly sold them seedling
material but not of the type they wanted, and often the trees had to be changed to a
new type and years and years were lost, but at that time gardening just began to
develop and these mistakes were inevitable. Other misfortunes were worse. Already
during one of the early years our beautiful and garden that was in full blossom suddenly
– and truly suddenly – was covered with small spiders- and within a few days everything
had been eaten away. The trees stood dark, as if it were winter, and only silky spider
webs glistened on them, enveloping empty branches, but millions of pupas of the wellknown apple spiders (Hypomenta malinella) lived in the spider webs. You remember
that nice-looking rather small, elegant dull butterfly with silky white wings and black
markings? By then we already knew how to fight it, but formerly we were still helpless
against it. And it was not only our new-generation gardeners, - the parents and their
gardeners, having come from Yalta where apple orchards did not exist, and also more
experienced people were affected.
The only remedy which helped sometimes was
spraying the trees with a strong tobacco solution. Of course, having learned from this
Page 127 experience, the parents bought a huge cast-iron kettle and, using black poplars, began
to cook a low-grade tobacco together with ordinary tobacco. But the spraying had to be
undertaken at a specific moment: when the pupas emerged from their eggs and began
to eat the young leaves. When you were late, the work was in vain, if you did it a little
early – the same would happen because the tobacco solution did not remain on the
leaves long, if after spraying there was even a little rain, it washed away the tobacco
from the leaves, and the pupa ate them in peace.
Therefore the cure succeeded
sometimes, sometimes it did not and the garden was either partially or totally eaten by
caterpillars. And that was horrible. This always happened in May. The trees, now full
of sap, having been left without leaves, began to develop the buds of the coming year,
and toward June-July the garden began to be green again, but the whole system of the
plants’ existence was ruined, one could not even think of the right development of the
trees for the coming year, the ruin was not only of this year but also of the next one, the
trees grew weak and the weakest ones simply perished. I remember that at one time
the Agach-Eli Tatars brought a “hadji” to my father, (that is a person who had been to
Mecca) and after he had left, there appeared a small bottle with a cork hanging from a
string from a branch of the large apricot tree which at that time stood opposite the large
terrace: the hadji had given it (probably had sold it) to them and it contained a
miraculous object against worms. Father was a correctly thinking person, but anybody
who ever saw the black garden could even accept a miraculous bottle.
I could tell you much, very much about our garden, of this beloved attempt by
Mother. How she the first thing in the early morning, went to the garden and while we
prepared ourselves for tea, had already gone all the way to the mill, looking everywhere
to see what was going on, where and what was being watered- and returned refreshed,
happy and enlivened, carrying something in her hands from the vegetable garden which
was needed in the kitchen or some especially large berry for Father. In the garden
nothing was done without her and sometimes after lunch she would disappear for half
an hour or so. And when we asked her where she had been, it turned out that she
stood and watered some trees, because Peter, her favorite worker in the garden – had
Page 128 been told by her to do something else. She spent whole days in the garden during the
spraying. And this occurred often. Gardening evolved very quickly in the Crimea, and
not less quickly the battle with a variety of harmful pests. The tobacco solution was
soon followed by the so-called Parisian greenery with lime solution. This solution quickly
dried on the leaves and did not so easily get washed away by rain, and therefore truly
turned out to be a wonderful item in the battle against the moths: 40 zolotniks (1 zolotnik
= 1/6th of an ounce in each of the buckets) for 40 buckets of water, but it had to be
mixed thoroughly so that in each of the 40 buckets were specks of dust from the
greenery: if there was too little, the leaf would not be protected, if there was too much,
the leaf would be burned, and it would lose weight. And so in the evenings our mother
would sit and on apothecary scales would weigh out little cone-shaped bags of exactly
40 zolotniks and when it was just barely light, she would run with these bags into the
garden and herself would lower one into the bucket full of water and would mix the
solution or else would keep watch when the mixing was done by an assistant maid.
And the spraying was not done only once. Just when the garden had succeeded in
blooming it was sprayed against moths. When the trees had “cleaned’ themselves, that
is, shed the unviable fruit, we sprayed again against worms - do you remember those
disgusting worms which in the Crimea can propogate for five generations during the
summer? After that we sprayed with “bordossky” solution, that is, copper sulfate, in
order to save the tender shoots of various types especially the Saffrons and Rennets
(*****), from the black mushrooms ‘Fusicladium.’
Altogether, the Crimean garden
resembled more some disinfection chamber – that is, the trees were constantly covered
with white and green spots and with the solutions of various mixtures with lime, and the
trunks were encircled with rings in order to catch the worms which were seeking a good
little space where they could stay peacefully, and the branches often were covered with
carbolineum when there was a suspicion that, like white snow, plant lice might appear.
Yes, it was not easy for the owners of the gardens to obtain the famous Crimean
apples! And this whole effort Mama bore without complaint and fatigue.
But even before the appearance of such pests, a fundamental enemy that left the
Page 129 owner with all the work and expense, but without any profit, might arrive: spring frost.
Famous in Germany as the “Ice Saints”, they also appeared in our garden and we
feared it and attempted to fight against it.
In our literature there is a wonderful
description of battles in which Father Frost helped by covering the garden with smoke.
This is the “Black Monk” by Chekhov. But it is one thing to read such a description and
another thing entirely during a clear spring night to walk in clouds of hot smoke, to
stumble in the dark in the canals for the water and to feel how more and more ice forms
on the bottom of your pants legs from the wet grass; but all this is below. At eye level
and higher, thousands of pink-white flowers appear out of the darkness, almost
poignant in their battle against death. The first time I simply did not believe my eyes,
when, bending down to the branch, I saw that it easily broke in half as if it were made of
glass or porcelain and that it was not a soft living petal. It became clear that I was not
surrounded by living branches but frozen little cadavers whose innards were already
torn up by ice which had formed from their juices. My soul became cold at the thought
that the crops which had been expected for a whole year were ruined in one night, not
even one night, but during several pre-dawn hours and only the weak hope remained
that only the branches closest to the ground had frozen and the higher ones had
survived. There were several outcomes: sometimes we were successful in saving a
large part of the crops, but sometimes all was lost. And then the following day was
terrible. The clear sun rose as always over the almost milky-colored trees, but only a
few hours later we felt that today the sun brought its children not life, but death, and the
next day there was no white garden: disgustingly dirty yellow wrinkled tatters covered
the trees, and one wanted to run away without looking back from this portrait of death
and destruction. On one of such mornings, already in Chadjijevka, I walked up to a
young little pear tree – Bere-Aleksander,-a long time already without flowers and
covered with marvelous young pears the size of a small thimble. They were so fresh
and shone so brightly as if their skin had be lacquered, that I involuntarily thought: well,
at least they remained. But when I cut into one of them, I found that in the place where
the future seeds would be, there already were black spots.
Everything had been
destroyed by the frost, and all the pears fell down in a short time. This was difficult not
Page 130 only materially: the fists involuntarily clenched from the feeling of offence and injustice
at this senseless and random destruction for us, for the gardeners, and these living and
shiny beings – flowers and buds.
During the second half of April and the beginning of May (in the old calendar) the
gardener slept badly when the sky was clear in the evening. Every hour he ran outside
to see what the thermometer showed and when it went down to 4Celsius or 3C degrees
(39.2 or 37.4Fahrenheit) there was no more thought of sleep and he would consider –
should one light the bonfire or not and will there be frost? Therefore it was a great relief
when the meteorologists explained to us that there was a method that would to a certain
degree allow us to predict whether there would be frost at night. It depends on the
degree of humidity in the air. If there is much humidity, then with the cooling of the
earth which occurs nightly, then even before the thermometer falls to zero, fog will form
and cover the earth and a further lowering of the temperature would stop – there could
be no frost. If the air was dry then frost would be probable. In order to predict this, one
needed two accurate, adjusted and co-ordinated thermometers one of which was left
dry, but on the little ball at one end of the other one we tied a thin rag which was
lowered into a glass of water. In the evening, having checked the degrees shown on
both thermometers one could, consulting a chart, find the temperature at which fog
begins to develop, and if that temperature was higher than zero, one could go to sleep
peacefully – there would be no frost, if it was lower than zero – one had to be on guard
and watch the further movement of temperature. I brought thermometers and set up
the whole intricate apparatus, for Mother alone, but who would occupy himself with it
when Mother was absent?
With her unwillingness of giving her work to others, it was
difficult to allow someone else to do this very responsible job with the charts, but she
learned quickly and would notify me in Petersburg about the results of her observations.
Finally all problems ended. The garden bloomed successfully, the mites, due to the
systematic yearly spraying, deserted the blooms and one could take a breath and await
the fruit. The sun burned brighter every day and soon the trees began to cry: water,
Page 131 water – almost loudly. They needed to be watered. When there was only our garden
and a few vegetable gardens in the whole Bulganak plain, even poor Bulganak provided
enough for watering, that is, our garden was still young and did not demand much
water. But with the passing of time, the number of gardens and vegetables increased
many times over. In Bodrak V.N. Schnaider planted a completely new garden, the
Kojash garden in the hands of my sister grew to about 30 desjatin (81 acres), the whole
meadow of the Tatar village where, during my time they were selling horses and calves,
turned into a plant and vegetable garden, and even in Kronental where the Bulganak
flowed so deeply that it was impossible to get water with a container lowered into it,
small gardens developed which needed water for irrigation from the stream. In AgachEli the areas of the gardens stayed the same, but the trees grew, the bowls dug around
them became much larger, and more water for irrigation was needed. I already wrote
that under Trigani there was not a single well with potable water, and during our first
years the water was brought in barrels from the well in the Tatar village. Imagine what a
pain every bucket of water was - needed for drinking by people, for cooking food, for
washing and the laundry, even if it was brought from not that far away. Early in the
morning a pair of oxen was harnessed, and two people rode to the well: one was
drawing the water, the other one, standing on the vehicle, poured, it bucket by bucket
into the barrel through an enormous wooden funnel. When it arrived at the house, a
long line of people with buckets stretched from it, and by lunch it was empty. Again they
drove for water. But the Crimean summer sun, during those few hours when the barrel
was only half full, managed to dry out the upper staves of the barrel. A long wait was
necessary until the staves were ready again, and this second time the barrel was only ¾
full. But at night the barrel had to be filled again, so that in case of a fire there was at
least a little bit of water. And this situation lasted for a long time. But we finally arrived
at the thought that if the Tatars had water, why could we not have any ourselves, and
we began to dig a well under the ditch. Of course there was water present and even
rather plentiful when the well was 8 arshin (18.6 ft) deep. Matters began to pick up.
Water was available at home – available 500 feet from the courtyard. From this well we
later had running water, at first with a hand crank, then with a horse-powered delivery,
Page 132 and finally a motorized system. The barrel disappeared from the courtyard. When it
became apparent that one had to seek additional water for irrigating the garden, the
thoughts went to wells again, and a second one was dug – in our little woods. About
these woods I also have to say a few words. Our meadow was not very wide, and
specifically in Agach-Eli it was narrow. There were two parts: the talweg along whose
both sides flowed, on the left, the channel of the Bulganak and on the right, the socalled upper ditch, and between them lay the irrigated section of the garden, but the
inclines to the talweg could only be irrigated if the water would rise.
These inclines
never were occupied by cultivated grain, but were plowed nevertheless. And therefore
we decided that a large piece of the incline which could be cultivated and which began
right after the ice house, would be planted with trees. Usually it was seeded with
ordinary barley, but the hens managed to eat all the grain so thoroughly, although it
already was laid in stacks, that it was almost not worthwhile to grind the grain. So in
that barley field one thousand holes were dug and in them one thousand small twigs
which had been ordered from Odessa, I believe from the Rot nursery, were planted.
How large these plantings were can best be seen from the fact that during the next
summer, when all the fields which lay fallow were covered with tall weeds, Brother
Serjezha went to help cut down the weeds and having totally forgotten about “the
woods”, managed to cut down a not very small part until a gardener working next to him
reminded him about “the woods”. However, the twigs were not allowed to perish, they
were even watered from the barrel twice during the summer, and soon the whole barley
field turned green with acacias, birches and even beeches. Their background was a
whole wall of tall poplars growing along the whole upper ditch and it shielded the young
trees from the sun’s rays from the South. And what was interesting: the soil beneath
the wood followed the incline toward the ditch, and the difference between the upper
and lower sections was 2-3 arshin (4.6-7 feet). The upper trees were horizontal, or
even leaning into the opposite direction - and grew so much better the closer they
stood to the shade. The birches, being close to the well and drinking their fill were
simply huge compared to all the other trees in the woods.
Yes, water – it was
everything for us!
Page 133 In these same woods water was found at the same depth as the other one – 8 arshin
(18.6 feet) but it was less potable. A horse-powered water system was established, and
in the center of the woods Father built a gorgeous cement pool 6 sazhen (42 feet) in
diameter and 1 sazhen (7 feet) deep, which contained 20,000.00 buckets of water.
And as usual, when he undertook something, he did not mind spending the money: the
pool was built of French Lafarge cement (at that time there was no Russian cement in
the South, or it was of poor quality) which never had cracks and held the water
wonderfully up to the end of our presence there. Water in this pool was added three
times a day from the ice house and to the brim once a week. Then the water was
released into the upper ditch and watered the right half of the garden, where the water
from the Bulganak reached it only with difficulty and very slowly. Since we so happily
bathed in the huge pool, the water was cleaned after each release and so the story
went from early in the spring to late in autumn. Later, when we put a motor onto the first
well and added a third one next to the first one (this is the well in which Andre almost
drowned, having been brought to the spot by my dear brothers and companions) water
was also brought into the pool from that well, and it filled to the top in three days.
Years passed unnoticed, the young trees (the whole garden was planned anew and
Trigoni’s old trees stood mainly next to the young ones) grew taller and finally began to
bear fruit. This took many years, it is not for nothing that a Tatar saying says: plant your
vineyard yourself, but an orchard you should inherit from your father. It is true that
French sort of apples ripen much earlier than the Crimean ? Nevertheless only a 12-15year old tree begins to produce its buds correctly and keeps them tightly.
In our time, Crimean gardeners sold fruit while it was still on the trees, and usually
these sales occurred in May-June. There were many reasons – and to list them all
would be boring for you. It was difficult to hire guards to encircle the garden and who
could at the same time put in supports, that is, put in numerous (sometimes there were
more than 100 trees) “gatali”, which are long sticks which were thicker at the ends and
Page 134 which needed to be found in the woods. Needed were pickers, people to put the fruit
into boxes, needed were packers, people to accompany the merchandise – sometimes
there was already frost in the North – to Moscow or Petersburg, there had to be
basements at the ready, one had to have connections with merchants otherwise it was
easy to be swindled. But there were also considerations of a different sort. Between a
successful bloom and a rich delivery there was a long time and the possibility of losing a
large part of the harvest was great. Hail could destroy or damage the fruit so much that
it lost its value totally, in the autumn a North-easter could throw off all of the fruit in spite
of the large number of “gatali’ within 2-3 days. And the great value of ripe fruit – many
tens of thousands rubles were paid for ripe fruit from the large gardens.
In one year
one hundred thousand rubles were paid for the Shishiman garden in Karshch Bazaar;
all this could turn into nothing. Therefore many owners of gardens preferred to ensure
themselves and sold their gardens in their early stages, knowing that they were
receiving a far smaller sum than they could have obtained if they fruit would have been
ripe. Of course for such a small garden as Agach-Eli was and in addition in such
inexperienced hands of people as those of our parents, it would be better to act early.
But who among the merchants knew that in the distant Bulganak plain previously
unknown to them,
there appeared a garden worthy of the attention of Moscow or
Petersburg wholesalers? And it was decided to organize a sale. A notice was put into
the local newspaper about the sale. Occasionally, while walking through the bazaar,
one would see a carriage with one horse, and you would wonder what such an empty
vehicle was doing in the bazaar among people and loaded carts. And suddenly the
carriage would stop and a man with a copper badge on his chest would appear in it and
would yell something in Tatar and Russian. This was the “telal”, the town crier who
spoke in a specific style. The telal was indispensable during sales, because he chose
the day of the sale in such a manner that it would not coincide with other sales. And so
on the day of the sale beginning in the morning, one after the other buyers came
accompanied by their experts and advisers, and sometimes simply with their good
friends, and enjoyed the pleasant affair. Each group individually went to the garden and
walked through it from end to end, unless someone in their group had gone to see it
Page 135 previously. Finally, at around 11 o’clock the viewing stopped and everyone gathered on
our large terrace around tables which were prepared for lunch. The offerings were not
refined – appetizer, something hot, coffee, tea – but plentiful. In addition: wine, beer,
water were also served. When everyone was full, the telal began his business. For us,
everything was totally new, and of course there was no end to our interest and agitation.
But our Ivan Semenovich was especially agitated. Already dressed as for a parade in
the morning, and already somewhat “talkative’, he was proud of his “child” and worried
about it. “Today our garden is like a bride, and all those are grooms” he repeated to
everyone, and one could feel that this was not a phrase for him but a formula in which
he poured out his love for the garden. By common consent, a base sum was agreed
upon, and the sale began. The telal turned out to be a rather good auctioneer, he threw
in some comments, mainly of course in the Tatar language; he himself was Crimean
and the majority of the people present were Tatars or people who knew the Tatar
language perfectly well; he winked at some, went up to one or the other of the
tradesmen – the usual picture at all auctions. The garden was sold for a sum which
nobody had expected – eight thousand rubles, and it was bought by D.V. Kapustin – at
that time one of the most prominent traders from Moscow, famous because he bought
only good merchandise. Our garden immediately received a “reputation”, was included
in the ranks of prominent gardens and we no longer needed to arrange sales: the
buyers came even without arranged sales.
After the sale of the fruit, the care of the garden, that is the watering of the trees, the
spraying, care of the bowls around the trees – were the responsibility of the owner,
finding and putting up the number of gatali needed, and of course the picking of the
fruits were the obligations of the leaseholder. The garden immediately seemed more
invigorated. In its center stood the so-called “carnival booth”, that is, a crude rather
large straw –covered hut around which flowers were always planted, and on a pole a
gay, large lantern shone in the evenings and a smoky summer stove on which the food
for the Tatar guards was cooked; in various corners of the orchard were smaller huts
where the guards slept close to the areas for which they were responsible, and
Page 136 sometimes one could hear them softly singing their Tatar songs, probably to ward off
sleep. In this manner, the summers passed. In August wagons with boards arrived, a
carpenter’s bench was prepared in the garden and two or three carpenters began to
build boxes according to strict measurements: one pud (36 pounds) for pears, two puds
for French-type apples, and four puds for ordinary, small Sinaps (******).
Come
September, gradually the harvest of the crop began. Everything that was necessary for
this job was expedient and distinctive in the Crimea. The ladder on which the picker
climbed up the tree had wooden planks and slats without sharp edges which easily
parted the branches and protected the pickers and the trees from injury during picking.
Everything was made with care not to harm the trees and the pods for the following
year. Whoever saw how carefully the picker took the fruit from the branch, not by
tearing but gently turning, and how carefully the Tatar did not throw but lay the fruit into
the basket, will be impressed how carefully the fruit was handled, at least here.
Probably one has to grow up under a fruit tree and develop a connection of the soul with
it in order to do everything in the manner in which our Tatars worked then. Basket after
basket was filled and lowered gently to the ground. An apple which had accidently
fallen from the hands to the ground never was placed with the collected ones –almost
certainly a dark spot would appear on it, and so it went into the trash.
The workers
carried the baskets to the “carnival hut” and there another special worker equally
carefully, and I would say lovingly, lay the apples in a heap together with those of the
same type. Soon we had to build two more such receiving stations, so-called platforms
– on stone poles for the apples. This was an unforgettable sight. The first one was
about 10 sazhen (70 feet) in length and 6 sazhen (42 feet) in width, and apples of the
same type stretched in an unbroken line from one end to the other, one arshin (28
inches) or more in height. The second platform was even longer. And a knowledgable
worker- an old man - poured out the apples so skillfully that they landed in almost
perfect rows. Along the edges of the platforms were straight strips of wood holding up
another row of pink, yellow, and white ordinary apples without end, and one more
beautiful and fresh than the next. One could not help but fall in love with this picture.
And even if a color photograph could convey all of this beauty and tenderness it still
Page 137 would not be able to provide the aroma which one could smell from afar when nearing
the platforms.
Two or three weeks passed. The pyramids of apples on the platforms grew and
improved. They improved because the apples, picked from the trees, lay in the fresh air
and lost their greenish color and their skin took on color when they were ripe. The
inside of the platforms gradually resembled colorful carpets. The basic mass of our
orchard consisted of English and Canadian Rennets . These were gorgeous types; the
trees grew healthy and spread wide, the fruit clung well to the branches and was very
large – a Canadian one which was as large as a cup in diameter was not a rarity. Their
taste was very good during autumn months – October, November. But later than that
they began to “smell” and their flesh turned sweet and mushy. These types began to
be called “hospital” apples because they were cooked easily and provided a wonderful
sauce. Later they were out of fashion and they were no longer planted. Next to this
“spinal cord “ of the platform with pyramids of pale colored fruit stretching along the
whole length, were golden sorts of winter apples nestled with their red stripes on deep
yellow backgrounds, which is why they were called “Saffron”. They served as a bridge
to the red Saffrons which is what we called the French “reine des ranettes” sort. This
was a first-class apple, not large, very beautifully adorned with bright dots on an orangered rich, rosy skin. This apple was prized above all other types and was favored by us
because in our dry plain it suffered less from a fungus, Molinia, and most important, did
not split so easily as it occurred in more moist regions. The taste of this apple was truly
astonishing – sweet with a barely noticeable refreshing acidity and a wonderful spicy
smell. This was a true dessert apple. More highly prized was only the white “Kalvil”.*****
This aristocrat among apples also grew in our orchard – and not only in ours, but
everywhere – badly. The trees ailed constantly; their branches dried out easily and
without any obvious reason, various parasites attacked them before any other trees,
especially blood lice. The fruit was always pretty and seemed tender and tasty. Bright
yellow with a somewhat dull waxy skin, and as it ripened, a somewhat rosy tone. It is
no wonder that it was sent to Petersburg wrapped in cotton and sold for one ruble or
Page 138 more per piece. These apples succeeded only in a few places and needed to grow as
dwarf trees. The brother of the white Kalvil, the red Kalvil resembled it in the firmness of
the fruit, but in other aspects was more democratic. It was so deep wine-colored that
even the flesh often was pink-to-red. In the fruit carpet of the platforms it was a folksy
dark spot, but its price was middling: it also had the tendency to “smell”. The greenish
white colored “Tirolean Rosmarines” with their slight acidic, wine taste were another
type. The skin of this common apple was so clean as if it had been polished and at the
same time so thin, that when biting into it one always had the impression that one was
demolishing a piece of art. This same thin skin, but when mature, white without spots
and a tender flesh, was the “Champagne Ranst” called “paper apple” on the market.
This also was a gorgeous sort: the tree grew gladly and strongly, was more resistant to
parasites, the fruit sat strongly and kept very well in storage. Their main value lay in the
fact that they did not ripen well enough for eating until January, February, and therefore
they could be stored in the basement for a long time. Occasionally these apples met
with the new crop, of course with early-ripening apples. They had a very tender taste,
but some people did not like their slightly acidic aftertaste. I am afraid to bore you, but I
would like so very much to tell you about the poor green succulent “Ranst” which I more
or less foisted on my parents from some nursery or other; they grew into magnificent
trees but not one merchant wanted to buy their fruit, and like orphans they had to wait
until finally a Jew bought them and brought them to his place where they were eagerly
bought to be used in tea instead of lemons; about the brown “Ranet” whose fruit with its
pleasant yellowish colored flesh and wonderful aroma I consider first-class and which
was not able to break through to the large market because of its green-brown and ugly
thick skin; about the great golden “Semech”****** which was small like a toy but truly
looked like gold and tasted so wonderful. This apple -but poisoned - was the one given
to the Czarina by her stepmother. I would also like to tell you about many of my old
apple friends of various origins: “Tatar koza, French belle-fleur, German Kostlichster”
which for some unknown reason was at the same time the “French Napoleon”, and
again about the Tatar small “Cheleb”. But enough. Only a few more words about
“Sinap” and “Kandil”. They were ancient Tatar Crimean varieties, and known as the
Page 139 Russian apples. As you may know, a lover of apples would not say: give me an apple,
just as a wine lover would not say: give me some wine. One has to know for what
reason you want an apple: do you need it sweet or sour, with or without aroma, dry or
one that gets brown even when applying a little bit of pressure, not even with the teeth
but just with the tongue, do you wish to feel a refreshing tang on your tongue or do you
want a dessert apple which is served at the end of dinner. But if you want to feel
something wonderfully invigorating and fresh, slightly aromatic with a clean apple smell,
crunchy under your teeth, take the “Sinap” apple, and you will involuntarily reach for a
second and third.
“Kandil-sinap” has been elevated to the aristocracy of sinapas.
Everything in this tree is noble. The tree itself, especially during the first 10-15 years of
its life is a beauty. It grows in a pyramid shape, like a poplar, very even all around and
keeps its shape without pruning.
When it begins to produce large fruit it spreads
somewhat, but then it is decorated with fruit of such beauty that one does not see the
loss of its former symmetry. In Tatar, “Kandil” means icon lamp. And now imagine a
straight tree with dark green leaves seemingly lit all over with small lanterns ending in
totally straight tips - it was a living Christmas tree. The ripe fruit was of a light yellow
color shining brightly, and had soft flesh. Therefore it could not be stored for as long as
the Sinap, because its beautiful, shiny skin began to be covered with wrinkles. One
thing was negative with the Kandil-sinap: it held on to its fruit badly, and even with a
relatively slight wind
- and you remember how the North-Eastern winds blew
sometimes in the autumn – half of its fruit lay on the ground, despite all the supports
and gatalis. Therefore it could be planted only in areas of the orchard which were wellprotected from the wind.
But nevertheless the Kandil-sinap was one of the most
interesting trees of the Crimea and it would be sad to lose this tree or simply forget it.
There were not many pears in our orchard, and we did not plant new ones. In our
place they grew badly, and their fruit was not first-class. Due to the famously good soil
many pears grew especially well, but there were a large number of so-called stony fruit,
that is, an accumulation of knots in the usual sweet flesh of the pear. We never sold
pears and saved all of them for ourselves. And you certainly remember the magnificent
Page 140 “Marie-Luise” and “Bere-Aleksander”, which Babushka prepared for you in the evenings.
One beautiful day, next to Mikhail’s cottage, one or two carriages with young girls
arrived in our peaceful Agach-Eli with noise and singing. They were the sorters and
packers. This time they were Russian girls from the outskirts of Mazayn, Sabel or Kurz
– three large villages which were once settled by Russian serfs and probably represent
the oldest pure Great-Russian settlements in the Crimea. It became gay and loud in the
orchard. The sorters inspected one apple after another, removed the ones which were
damaged or which would not withstand a long storage, and sorted the fruit by size. The
so-called heads (“golovka”) went into a separate box- they were the ones which would
be in the first, front row of each box. This innocent attempt to embellish the
merchandise was so well-known that nobody was lured by it into buying and the future
buyer would have to be a total newcomer or inept if he would judge the whole box of
apples by its top row.
And this was the only instance of hoodwinking. Never was
spoiled fruit put into the boxes. From the sorters the apples went into the hands of
packers and they wrapped the apples in paper, but sometimes put them into boxes
directly; the boxes were outfitted with cotton wool and the full boxes were carried to the
side, covered with paper and then with stalks which had not gone through the threshing
machine and therefore were resilient, then with small rags, and lastly with three hoops
of moistened walnut wood. All this was done quickly, well and accurately. Then the
boxes were affixed with stencils: on one side the firm of the exporter and the name of
the contents: English Rennet – and on the other side: Agach-Eli S.S. Nalbandov. This
is how we entered the market! With this the long year of the orchard ended. The group
worked quickly – they had to hurry into the next orchard, and after 2-3 days only 2 or 3
guards remained; they had to clean up and put into one heap all of the many thousands
of gatali which were needed for the following year; they had to return the same number
of gatali to us as they had received from us in the spring. The gatali which we had
newly acquired during the year were added to the inventory for the coming year. Finally
this job was also finished, the huts were cleaned and nailed shut with boards for the
winter, the last boxes were hung up, the guards left – and right away it became empty
Page 141 and silent in the orchard.
I loved to stroll through the garden during that time.
Everything still reminded me of the former work - the tearing of papers, the heaps of
cotton wool, the little branches broken off by the wind and the leaves under the trees,
their fruit, and those thrown away during the sorting. The trees were unexpectedly
somehow empty and unusually disheveled as if they were freeing themselves of the
corsets which had held them and they no longer knew how to hold their branches. But
they were also tired from carrying the masses of fruit and now felt their freedom, and
slowly began to lift their branches again and sway even in the lightest wind. And as if
they were begging: leave us in peace, give us some rest from your worries about us and
your tortures.
Vineyard. The vineyard was the only thing left in somewhat good shape by the
Triganis.
It was situated between the upper ditch and the road which at that time
passed through much lower than during your time. I think the vineyard was about 13.5
acres of land. When Father bought Agach-Eli he moved the road much higher, along
the plain and in this way turned the whole land reclaimed from the steppe into one large
vineyard. But the quality of the wine was not high, and on the advice of someone whom
I do not know, the parents decided to plant a whole new vineyard. From the point of
view of usage, this was a perfectly correct decision, as it was situated toward the North,
as this was also done this way in Kronental. There was so little rain and so much sun in
our area and it seemed to me that the very last drops of moisture fell on our northern
slope. On the northern slope the autumn grapes became mature earlier and therefore
there was less danger of frost damage (and sometimes the vines were damaged by
frost when the fresh shoots had already grown to 1/4th of their necessary length). The
parents decided that the new vineyard must be first-class, and through F.M. Schlee who
lived in Yalta, ordered twigs from the Nikitalev gardens: red and white muscatel, aligot,
and so forth. But this proved to be a mistake. Our grapes were marvelous: sweet and
aromatic, but these varieties, especially in our dry conditions, produced so little wine
that it was not profitable. The red and white grapes were thrown together into one heap
and then used to produce wine; a connoisseur of wine, and even somebody who did not
Page 142 know much about wine would realize immediately that our wine sat, so to speak,
between two chairs: it was not a liqueur and it was too perfumed and strong for a good
wine, that is, for a good table wine. But wine was only a small part of our household,
and its mistakes did not bother us greatly. Later we added one more area to the
vineyard and planted only two varieties: black and white burgundy.
However this
changed nothing in our vineyard business. In general, there was so little wine that there
was no possibility to manufacture it at home and then to bottle it, especially since none
of us had any knowledge of making wine. All that remained was to sell the wine in a
raw or partially raw condition, that is, immediately after its harvesting, or one or two
years later. After the death of Ivan Semenovich the new gardeners understood little
about grapes, and there always was the possibility that the wine would turn sour or be
spoiled in some way.
Mother of course played a major role in this also, and her
cleanliness and accuracy did not allow such an unpleasant possibility. But whether we
kept the wine one year or more, we did not receive more than two rubles per bucket.
Something had to change in the winemaking; one could not produce the wine and keep
it in buckets in the carriage house with a straw floor and next to the stables. Therefore
Father decided to establish a wine cellar and above it a wine producing area. The
project was drawn up by the mining engineer A.V. Konradi, at that time a great friend of
Franz, and constantly staying with him in Kojash, owner of gardens, an interesting,
smart and lively person, who was strongly interested in Crimean horticulture. He built
the first large reservoir dam in the Crimea in the garden of Dr. Betling in Alm. Dr. Nik.
Nik. Betling was an outstanding surgeon and a passionate gardener and played a large
role in developing horticulture in the Crimea.
We built a good cellar, deep and with iron beams, and above it a large wine making
area with a cement floor and an oven, in case the grapes would be cut and the first
shaking of the wine would occur during cold weather. Now we began to keep the wine
at home and since grapes were cut late, that is, when they had ripened well, the
varieties were good, everything was kept clean, and the wine turned out well, that is,
strong, aromatic and healthy. Slowly, Nalbandov wine also became famous in very
Page 143 definite circles. Next to ours, the Kronental wines were of a somewhat fluid sourness,
because their varieties were very simple, and they were cut early, not allowing the
grapes to ripen sufficiently. One of the colonists, Weiss, a wine merchant, began to buy
our wine, at first aged, but later new wine and then added the acidity which he had in his
wine in Kronental. And he only sold to acquaintances – of course for a different price –
to wine lovers, a few buckets of “real Nalbandovian “ wine, not ruining it by additions of
Kronental wine. In good years, Mother saved a cask of good new white wine for us, let
it age, added old reserves, and then poured it into bottles for our use. All of the other
wine was poured from the presses directly into Weiss’ buckets and traveled to him in
Bulganak, and we received our two rubles for a bucket of new wine.
From the
squeezed-out skins we made a beverage which we served the workers on holidays.
It is unnecessary to speak of bird- and beekeeping, there was so little of it. You
yourselves will remember our small bird house with the pigeon coop – the only one I
know which one could enter on ordinary steps in order to clean the floor and nests, and
the pig sty in which there were 4 – 6 pigs which provided lard and such good sausages
which we never again ate anywhere else. And this was also Mother’s achievement.
The sticking of the pigs and the making of sausages in the whole area was done by the
butcher of Bulganak, and in our place Mother was present and oversaw how and what
he put into the sausage. And this “what” were the items which made our sausages so
good that everyone ate them with pleasure. Mother loved her ducks, white Pekings,
very much, and it was truly pretty to see them when they purposefully, in a white chain,
walked along the upper ditch where some water was always provided for them, and
then they sat like white spots in the green grass, hiding their heads under their wings.
For them Mother herself always cut the rinds of watermelons and melons into small
pieces after dinner, and a special bucket was brought to her chair for them.
We had few bees – it was too dry, and blooming ended early because of the
dryness, but nevertheless the honey always was our own.
Page 144 If you have read so far, you will say that I have told you about our gardens and
orchards and about Agach-Eli, but I had wanted to tell you about my parents and their
lives. Where is that? They had no life besides their children and work. Outside of
these two spheres they had no other interests, especially Mama. I wrote already that
after his marriage Father was looking for work for a few years, and stopped this search
only after buying land. But I have no doub that internally all this bustling and difficult
work did not satisfy him.
He conscientiously
tried to get used to this work; he
supervised the workers, did not mind to spend time and money in order to do and make
everything better and reasonable, but he was not successful in the unavoidable trifles of
housekeeping and they tired him. A deep and burning love which did not notice the
problems and their constancy, which Mother had, he did not have. He always searched
for something larger, something more worthy of spending one’s life for. How many
times did I observe him when, having come into town, he, sometimes still in his coat,
and with an unaccustomed speed, would take some newspapers and quickly, quickly
look through them. Only much later did I realize that this was a small expression of the
hunger of the soul which he experienced while living in our remote corner. It probably
seemed to him that somewhere were more important tasks, that the world was moving
on – and that he was not only not taking part in this movement but also knew nothing
about it. And he always looked for paths into that world, finding his own world not
interesting enough, not using all of his spiritual strengths and abilities........
With Mother it was totally different. She truly lived for her work and her interests.
For her there was no important or unimportant work – when she was doing something,
she was immersed in her work and did not analyze whether it was important or
unimportant – it was important that the job was done well, but sometimes things did not
succeed with her presence as they would not have even without her. She had a
invaluable quality – very rare among people, especially Russian people: when working,
she thought only of the task she was doing at that minute. She lived her life bound
together with her work, and since she was a clever and contemplative person, the work
usually turned out successfully. And the inner regulator about which I wrote previously,
Page 145 did not allow her to drown in trifles and to get tangled up in details; she studied every
task, understood its basic meaning and sense, and also knew all the details toward its
completion. She also could explain and demonstrate, to order something done or do it
herself, could quietly learn from someone else something she did not know herself. I
repeat: she lived for her work and work lived in her hands. This was, I believe, the only
person whom I knew to whom the famous Russian saying: “laziness was born before
we were” – did not apply. And it is not surprising that she was the center around whom
all of our lives turned – Agach-Eli and all its inhabitants!
Life in Agach-Eli now appears to me like a magical dream. It was not a life of
Oblomov (sluggish, lethargic), nor was it like the one of old-fashioned land owners, but
there were a few strains of both of those. It contained so much effort and energy, so
much knowledge, that a description and even a not-so-short story about it was earned
and deserved by its owners.
The old Trigani house was wonderfully comfortable. Not high, without stairs, totally
surrounded by trees which knocked on its windows with their branches during stormy
weather, it was cool in the summer and warm in the winter.
It was heated by a
fireplace, especially in autumn when, with much trouble, wood from the apple- and pear
trees would be thrown into it, and it would burn slowly for twenty-four hours. When a
long, glass corridor was added to the house, and we no longer entered through the front
door, it became especially warm and comfortable. In that corridor and the dining room
with the iron stove, our whole lives were concentrated, but in the summer we only ate
dinner there. We drank our morning tea on the garden terrace, which had been greatly
enlarged. You remember those sunny, bright mornings when the morning dew still
hung in the garden. Do you also remember the evening tea and dinner on the terrace
during the wonderful summer evenings, when hundreds of butterflies and moths flew
towards the candles in the glass sticks. We ate dinner at 8 o’clock, and at 10
watermelons and melons were brought from the ice house, or Mother herself brought a
basket of peaches, pears or grapes from her pantry – they all were fresh, not tired out
Page 146 from laying in a store. It was time to go to sleep, but the moon shone so brightly, the
night was so velvety, so warm that it was difficult to leave the terrace and go to our
room.
And the Agach-Elian dinners? Everything was simple, but how tasty it was! We ate
much, honestly, too much. Brother Serjezha would come to the village with his whole
family for a vacation and always scolded Mother for cooking so well and amply. He
particularly attacked the greasy, wonderful sauces and threatened us that we all will die
from eating too much. Mother only smiled, we listened and kept eating, and finally
Serjezha waved with his hand, sat down next to us and ate and praised the food. We
all understood the correctness of his indignation, but did we not also have to have a
vice? And how could we deprive ourselves of all this tastiness? Georgeous chibureki,
soup with dumplings, the mousaka which was famous in all of the Crimea; sauce of
fried eggplants layered with hamburger which was famous because some mullah,
according to legend, swallowed his own tongue while eating this (“imam bayaldy” – was
another name for this dish) – all of these Eastern dishes obtained a finer taste under
Mama’s Western hands – and it was difficult to stop eating them. On the other hand,
the Sunday “Nudelsuppe” with the cooked chicken and rice, slightly flavored with lemon
and with Hollondaise sauce following it, was loved by the children; egg yolks were
added to the sauce as well as some of the famous Agach-Elian butter. And Babushka’s
well-known young pigeons in cream? And the young fried ducks with apples - not the
ordinary apples but the baked “hospital” English Renets, slightly infused with aromatic
duck grease? And finally, Babushka’s famous ice cream, of which one could never
prepare enough the demand for it was so great among the small and big people. All
this and many more items were wonderful – we ate much and with pleasure, but we
never were gluttons. And in my whole life I never heard Father say to Mother: “Varja,
could you cook this or that?” Such words were never possible in our house. We ate
richly and well, but we never ate up our profits nor our capital, just as we did not drink
them away and did not lose them at cards. We put everything into the same earth
which toiled for us. We used the fruit of our labor, without being embarrassed about
Page 147 this, but we also knew about the effort and knew how to work. We owned an estate, but
we did not gad about abroad and did not rent out our place or entrust it to managers,
but from early morning to late at night we were at our place and took care of our large
responsibilities every minute. We were that which I in an open letter, addressed to all
land owners in the Tavrichesky region, wrote in 1906 called “working estate owners”,
and where I invited them to unite for the coming elections of members for the second
Federal Duma. There was much derision during discussions and in the newspapers
concerning my use of that term, but I did not and do not take it back. My parents were
such working estate owners, as was my brother-in-law, my uncle Schlee and many,
many others.
If in 1920, before parting with our Bulganak plain forever, you would have given it a
parting glance from the same Kolumbstal mountain on which our parents stood 40 years
ago, you would see a very different picture.
The village Kolumber-Eli with its few huts
which stood in a circle – had disappeared. The ground on which it stood had been
plowed up to the road, but to the left of the road, a little to the side, stood a clean new
farmstead with a smallish garden and a good aviary which belonged to Petr Nikolaevich
Schnaider. Looking down along the plain, you would not see the mighty poplars of
Agach-Eli, because they, together with the entire plain, drowned in greenery, so young,
fresh and so rich that it seemed unbroken and only the distant white church of Kronental
would assure you that you were standing on the same place where you stood forty
years ago. On the right side you would not see the house of Kovalsky, because it was
blocked by the new house of Franz Nik. Schnaider, also with a small garden decorated
with its own mountain spring. Far away on the left side on a little hill you would have
seen the totally new country estate of the third brother, Wendelin Nikolayevich
Schnaider, with a large young garden. Even farther on the right side, instead of the
neglected land of a tobacco plantation and the half-ruined drying sheds, in the thick of
the park, gradually turning into the forests of the mountain slopes, there, on a high hill,
with its white walls and even white roof, stood the house with its marvelous terrace,
marble columns, two-stories and with stairs leading to the park. This green kingdom
Page 148 was not impressive when seen from the right side of the plain – sporting a young
vineyard; it stretched on the left side with a large newly planted orchard. And only a line
of acacias along the road, totally lost in all the greenery, and the old cellars of the
Numanavsky vineyards would let you know that you are in Kojash – the estate of our
Franz and Sonja. Further on the left you again see the young orchard from which the
tall silver-gray roof of our small Chadijevka is visible. The small and poor Tatar village
of 40 years ago also has grown stronger and larger, and its empty meadows have
turned into young small orchards and gardens. And here is Agach-Eli.
You have
already noticed the old familiar black poplars, but now they do not reach out to the sky
and looking like a light-green island in the midst of the green sea of the young garden
through a long and high tree-lined row of poplars and a young forest, you see more than
ten tile roofs of various heights, and trees, separating the wine-making house, and
lower, the white chimney of the threshing shed with a straw roof, and more closely,
small pools glistened in the sun like small round mirrors. These views attested to the
fact that the estates were healthy and well-kept. Such was the Bulganak plain in the
year 1920, and all this was done by us, small and large, hard-working estate owners.
Our father and mother were very healthy people. During their whole life I do not
remember that they were seriously ill. With the years, signs of obesity became evident
in my father’s heart, and I believe in 1895, Doctor Minat sent him to Marienbad. He
returned very thin and refreshed, and afterwards returned to
Marienbad 2-3 more
times. In 1903 or the next year, he underwent an operation in Odessa to remove a
polyp in the urinary tract, and he recovered so quickly and well that it was clear that his
heart was in good condition.
Therefore his death in January 1909 was totally
unexpected for us. That evening all of us were Edi’s guests, who at that time lived in a
wing of the neighboring Schektman house. It was one of our usual evening gatherings
in which all our close relatives took part. The evening passed as usual, we played
cards, my sister sang, Father was in a wonderful mood, went from room to room,
stopped at one then the other group of guests, softly sang along with my sister. We ate
dinner late, after dinner sat around for a long time. Mother was not feeling well, and
Page 149 when she was bundled up so she would not catch cold, we went home in a carriage. It
came into my head that it would be difficult for her to exit from the carriage in the large
scarf which had been thrown over her head, and I said to Edi: “perhaps you can
accompany Mama”. But Father, in an evidently annoyed voice answered: “what else
have you imagined again” and we went on. Already during the ride Father did not feel
well, but unlocked the exit door with a small English key, began to take out some money
to pay the coachman in the light of the lamp, and suddenly sat down on the lowest step
of the stairs. Mother, thinking that he felt faint, quickly went upstairs to get some water,
but when she returned, he was already dead.
He lay in the grave just as quiet and handsome as he had been in life. We buried
him not far from the side gates of the cemetery – I do not know whether his grave has
survived. On it stood a white marble cross, made in Florence, rising from a block of
marble and wound around with white marble lilies. Behind the cross was a trellis with
live roses. Next to him we planted four pyramid yews which were to represent the four
of us. Around the grave was an iron fence of a garland of oak leaves, simple and
straight. The death of our father was the first true disaster which hit our extensive
family. It paralyzed all of us with its suddenness. Having come from Odessa for the
funeral, Serjezha cried like a child. Mother cried silently, but was totally destroyed and
unusually apathetic. Her silence increased, but as much as we tried to persuade her,
she went to the cemetery in her small carriage.
I, more than the others, had to stay with him during those last days which he spent
with us. I stood next to him, and despite all my horror, thought and spoke with him. For
the first time, death was that close to me, for the first time it stopped being an abstract
problem but became a large, very large fact. And I thought: either there is a God, and a
soul, and then death is only a break in our life together, an exit of someone who was
born before me, and, strictly speaking, used up his body before me and having nothing
to do with our love and soul, or there is no God, no soul – and then life is such an
absurd and unnecessary happenstance, such a million-year-long joke on our mind and
Page 150 being, that it is not permissible to grieve about the death of a person, one must almost
be happy that this undignified comedy of life in which a person is not different from a
leaf that falls from a tree, has ended for him and one must only think how to end this
comedy for oneself more quickly. My whole soul, then and now, only accepted the first
decision, and since then and not now I no longer fear death not only for myself, but also
for those close to me. And in the cemetery I almost calmly kissed my father’s cold
forehead and in my thoughts said to him: “ we will see each other again, Papa.”
After the death of my father, Mother went abroad with the Schnaiders who had
already previously planned to travel, and stayed for about two months. She returned
calmer. Father had left no will. All of us already stood on our own feet, nobody needed
an inheritance desparately, and together we decided that while Mama was alive, things
would remain as they were during Father’s life. I was to manage the house in town;
Edja, together with Mother, - the estate. Once a year the heirs checked the books and
made major decisions: to do this or that building, pay debts, and so forth. Any profits
were divided into five equal parts.
And life went on without there being any
disagreements or quarrels. As previously, Mama remained in charge of everything in
Agach-Eli, and Edja took care of the field work, which he loved and knew very well.
Nine years passed in this manner. In 1918 during the first Bolsheviks, Mama was in the
village and was taken to town by an ordinary stagecoach between the arrival of the
Bolsheviks in Simferopol and the destruction of our houses on the estates. I still see
her – a poor, exhausted little old woman, dressed in her warm, dress - green with red
stripes- in the door between the dining room and living room: she arrived totally
unexpectedly; all connection between us and the telephone in Kojash had been broken.
In 1919 we went to Anapa together. In October 1920 she again was in the village when
the evacuation came. I could not leave Sevastopol and as much as Shura tried to
convince her to come with us, she did not agree. Of course a large part of her decision
was the fact that Edja and Tamara decided to stay. If they had left, she probably would
have left also. After our flight she – I do not know whether of her own will or by force –
left our house and lived at Aunt Masha’s. Later, again I do not know why, she lived with
Page 151 the Lerichs and slept on a couch in the hallway. Edja went into hiding, Tamara was
arrested. Soon everything that she had was used up, and she simply starved. Knowing
how little she needed, I can judge how difficult it was to obtain food, but, to tell the truth,
to the end of my days I will not understand that the Lerichs did not have enough food for
her. Finally Serjezha could get to Simferopol. “I did not recognize Mama” he wrote to
me, “she was so thin and exhausted.” He transferred her to Odessa, but she did not
live much longer. My brother did not write to me about her death, and I found out about
it from his son, Serjezha, who lived in England. She evidently became so weak, that
her heart quietly stopped. My brother bent over her and asked whether she could hear
him. She did not answer him but only weakly pressed his hand. They buried her in
Odessa, I believe in the fenced-in area of her daughter-in-law’s family.
8. The four of us.
We had a good, bright childhood. A simple one, without nannies and governesses.
Father always regretted that we did not study foreign languages during our childhood
and almost asked our forgiveness and said: “you know, that there would have been no
room for a governess.”
And there truly was no room, but I only bless those tight
quarters which prevented a governess from separating us from our parents and one
from another. I later observed many governesses and educators, Russian and nonRussian, - there were some in our small family – but fortunately not for long, but if I were
to start life over, I never would have them. Here is not the place to start a discussion
about the meaning of family, but whoever treasures a family not only from the point of
view of comfort or personal satisfaction, must not bring a wedge into it in the form of a
governess. Our father was very concerned about our upbringing, and he often repeated
a phrase which he loved: upbringing is more important than education. In spite of this, I
do not remember at all that we were brought up. We simply lived as a tight, friendly
family and did what our parents did. And knowing nothing about Pestalozzi (*******), our
parents instinctively fulfilled its famous requirement that pedagogy consist of two things:
love and decency. Nobody told us in any language to stand straight, to speak only
Page 152 when you are asked; they had no prescription for a good upbringing, we were only
stopped when we veered from the limits of the permissible: tried to eat with our fingers
or stuck our finger into our nose. You will ask what the difference was. A very large
one. We did not grow up among many people, and never felt at home in fancy parlors.
But during our childhood years we felt free in our behavior, while we were also
responsible for it. It would have seemed wild to us to call our father or mother “wy”
(you-polite form), or while sitting at table with them that we should not turn to them with
a question or not to answer them. We were little people with total rights, who were not
allowed to do this or that, sometimes with an explanation, sometimes without one, the
parents only saying vaguely: you will not understand this, but these are the rules which
govern in our small family circle. In our family there was an air of freedom, and we were
never silenced or told: this is not your business. Father always said: “I am ready to
listen to advice even from a child,” and it would never enter our heads to think that this
or that occurence in our house did not concern us or warrant our opinion. That is how it
always was, and I remember that once, I believe during the division of the inheritance,
Mama felt herself offended by her older brothers, and a temporary tiff developed
between the Schlee and our household, our parents were reproached because all of us
were aware of the situation. We were not that small anymore, I already was in high
school; nobody complained to us or involved us in the quarrel, but nothing was hidden
from us. This “spirit” in our house was connected to the fact that we lived a quite selfcontained life, we had almost no close friends and moved mostly among the numerous
relatives of our mother and father, and this had the effect that we experienced not only
the usual love between us and the parents, and between the four of us, but we also
experienced friendship. Therefore we were a truly friendly family. Looking back on my
life of many years within my family, I cannot remember a single moment of not only a
quarrel in our family, but even of a tiff. When we all were married and four outsiders of
very different characters entered the family, the relations between us did not cool, and
we just as closely were interested in each other’s fates, also we did not hide anything
from each other, trusted each other, as we had been used to do since childhood. We
had a very lively correspondence and I regret unendingly those hundreds of letters
Page 153 which I accumulated during the long years of my absence from the Crimea. Each stage
of life, each new attempt, new plans – everything was reported, everything was debated
and critiqued – and always with kindness. I can only say once again: it was a good,
bright, friendly childhood.
I already wrote that we were raised simply. We never had special dress clothes,
during our highschool time we had two shirts: one new, the other an everyday one, if
one got torn, a new one was bought, and we grew up in the same undemanding manner
such as we have stayed throughout our lives. I remember that in his 8th grade, my
brother’s uniform jacket fell apart totally, but he did not want a new one sewn for him
because it was not worth it for one last year, and so spent the whole Crimean winter in
his summer coat. And I want to emphasize once again: it was not stinginess of my
brother or my parents. It was an economical way of life which was present in everybody
who worked and knew the value of money and work. That is how it was with everything.
You will find it comical, but for you it is not a secret that to this day I cannot calmly see
the unnecessary spilling of water. It would seem that after so many years of tap water
one would abandon this silly bagatelle, but it is stronger than I: the many years during
which each bucket of water had to be brought in by Mother or a servant and in the
village had to be delivered by a special carrier, carved into my psyche such deep
furrows that even the richest tap water cannot erase them. We always ate well, and
sufficiently, but always modestly. For breakfast we were given a five-kopek piece so
that we could buy a bun at the high school, but never so much that we could buy some
fruit or grapes from the Tatar Ivan – I do not know why everybody called him Ivan – who
was famous throughout town for cheating and who sold fruit to the high school students
as a sideline. I remember that during my childhood Sonja and Serjezha sometimes
spoke about how fortunate other children were, especially the Schnaider children, who
lived above the restaurant “Petersburg” and could eat from the menu whatever they
wanted and received some sweets every day. In our house sweets were given far from
every day, and Mother would give us candy from a box which always was locked and
stood on the buffet. And in my mind, when I see the eager expectation in our faces
Page 154 when Mother unlocked the box, and compare them with the bored faces of our children,
especially the Schnaider children, who listlessly rooted through the bowl filled with
sweets and which always stood on the buffet, I definitely and emphatically prefer our
box.
I do not know how our childhood and youth would have developed if we had lived
only in town, but Agach-Eli was bought before Edja was born, when I was six and
Serjezha and Sonja were 12 and 14. From that moment on, the village became to play
the major role in our lives, and town became a place for study. But during our time even
this was more modest and difficult. Even in our sleep we did not envision frequent trips
from here and there, and drove to the village only for Easter and summer vacations.
But with how much enthusiasm did we await that move! For these family trips we had a
special German van – later it stood in our carriage shed for a long time, but I do not
know whether you ever rode in it because it so totally stopped being used. Essentially
this was an excellent carriage on high wheels and therefore light, very roomy – 6 to 8
people could occupy it comfortably, totally enclosed from the wind and rain, its back was
often heated from the coachman’s area with a special pipe and had a barrier of a folded
partition between the coachman’s and our area. In our yard you of course never saw
such German vans – in them all substantial German villagers came to town in full force
in the fall when they bought all the necessities for the whole family: dresses, hats,
shoes, and so forth. One thing was bad in that carriage: it was so high that it swayed
during the voyage and little by little it made the passengers seasick, especially when it
was cold or windy, and the side and front windows were closed. Therefore, when it
finally came to a stop, we stepped down from it with a feeling of relief and a little stupor.
But all this was trifling when compared to the coming joy: we are traveling to the village
for two weeks of Easter vacation! Already in the morning the packing of the things we
would take along, began. In the early years in Agach-Eli the whole household had to be
taken along and many, many things had to be brought from town and then taken back to
town. But there was a lot of room in the van for many things, that is, the seats were in
the form of drawers on which cushions were laid. And then, after we finally got settled
Page 155 inside, many items were handed up and all these things had to be stored in the drawers
and shoved into corners or else held on one’s lap. Finally everything was accomplished
and we were on our way. During the first years we went without Mama, because there
was no good baking oven in the village for baking kulich (Easter cakes). Later this also
was accomplished, and the whole procedure for preparing for Easter would be done in
the village. I remember well the first disappointment. From the previous fall, we kept in
our memory the village and the road as a green carpet, but now, especially when Easter
was late, even though the grass and some small plants were already green, all the
bushes and particularly the oak woods in Budkin still were black and dried out, here and
there even still with the dried leaves from last year. And this disappointed us greatly –
the village appeared to be somewhat unreal, not promising its former pleasures. But
soon enough masses of young green bushes with their magnificent red and yellow
buds, and sometimes even already with single flowers appeared on the Budkin
mountain. And every time I looked at the small yellow bushes with special interest – we
did not have them at home – and I always wanted to dig some up and transfer them to
us in order to correct this mistake of Nature, but there never seemed to be enough time,
and there also was no shovel. I had to leave correcting Nature’s mistake until the next
year. The road sometimes was still dirty, and then the trip was long, but finally we were
at the Kumbetelsky decline. Father and Mother did not feel easy – the van was very
wobbly and along the edges of the road there were so many deep potholes that if the
horses could not, for any reason, hold the carriage, it would not be good. Everyone is a
little on edge, but little Edja, not understanding the danger of the situation, loudly
pronounces: “here is where Baba was killed”.
But fortunately the most dangerous
descent has already ended, the horses are given free rein and the van, wobbly, gaily
swayed into our plain. At that time a few small village huts still existed, and from their
chimneys smoke rose, and it smelled of that particular, sharp smell of hot Kizjak (dried
manure) which one can distinguish from all other smokes of the world. And with delight
we breathed in this unquestionable proof of the village and one of us, already older and
more learned, said without fail: “the smoke of our homeland is sweet and pleasant for
us.” But the greatest delight for all of us was the sight of the black and white lambs,
Page 156 who uneasily crowded near their mother, greedily eating the young grass, surrounded
by the huts of the orchards. From now on, everything went quickly and gaily. We flew
past the strangely growing heap of the disintegrating Bodrok mosque, which during the
summer is hidden by overgrown lilacs, gaily ran around the fountain of Kojash at that
time not yet captured into pipes, again it smelled of the Kisjakan smoke of the AgachElian Tatars, and our van, turning as if on a kopek before the gate, swings into our yard
and accompanied by the barking of the unkempt dogs, rolls to the wooden corridor of
our dear house. We enter – and again there is a feeling of strangeness – the house is
the same, all washed and cleaned, but it is still filled with an unusual winter coldness, it
almost seems it is not happy to see us or it has forgotten us. You quickly go to the
stone terrace and to the tenderly shining sun, the tulips in the flower beds here and
there, and the opening buds of the lilacs on the southern side – all this moves you with
its warm greeting, and you immediately feel: you are home. And on the highest visible
branch sits a starling and chirps and whistles, and enjoys with you the warmth and the
sun. He preens and shines in the sun, his little throat trembles and puffs up and shines
green and blue under the bright rays of the sun, he bends and beats his wings and
trembles with his whole body and does not see or hear anything around him in his total
joy.
After dinner the stoves were heated up again, but despite this, laying in bed, you
would feel an unusual raw coldness, and you wouldpull up the lap robes and blankets
which had been brought from town, but the cold also penetrates from below, and you
do not fall asleep immediately; this does not at all hinder the feeling of happiness about
the fact that you are in the village, that you are surrounded by such uncustomary
silence, and that tomorrow you will wake up again - in the village.
Easter comes and
passes with all its delights, and the question which worries the whole house is
answered, whether the kulich and especially their resemblance to each other were
successful this year – the especially light dough needed a wild amount of egg yolks –
were they sweet enough, did they have holes, did they rise sufficiently and were they
well-baked? If Easter was later – in the second half of April – it coincided with the
Page 157 blooming of the garden, and this gave Easter an even greater holiday- and festive look.
Our gardens could be seen from the mountain top, and this view was unforgettable.
This was truly a white sea of flowers or bouquets, standing straight along all the length
of the garden and edging the flowing Bulganak with tender green pussy willows and the
poplars on the upper ditch. And only when you descended again from the mountain
and you were embraced on all sides by hundreds of blooming trees, you would see that
what resembled a white sea in truth were masses of various blossoms. The dull white
blossoms of the pears were already cradled by tender unfolding leaves, the flowers of
the apples, white on top and lightly pink underneath, sat on bare branches. You would
come closer and would find that one could already see the color of the future bud by
looking at the color of the blossom: the pink cheeks of the Sinap in the lightly pink
underside of the leaves, the dull palesness of the paper Ranet or Rosmarin in its white,
thin coloring of the leaves.
And so you simply cannot but stop and admire, so
unbelievably beautiful are the large, single stars of the blossoms of the quince, laying
cradled in the thick skin of the already opened leaves.
On the second day of Easter we sometimes drove to Kronental. Usually on that day
the priest came from the Simferopol Roman Catholic church and conducted a mass.
After mass there was a peculiar tournament. Beginning at the church and for another
long stretch, even to the road leading to Agach-Eli, rows of colored eggs were laid out
equidistant from each other, on the street of the colony. Driving on that street was
forbidden during that time, or was directed to neighboring streets. These eggs had
been collected long before Easter and were so-called scrambled, that is, they lay under
the hens but for whatever reason no chicks developed; they were just as brightly
colored as the good eggs. When all the preparations were finished, two young men
whose caps and jackets were richly decorated with ribbons and flowers, came out.
They shook hands, demonstratively kissed each other, and the contest began. One of
them had to run to the boundary to Agach-Eli, pass a check point, turn around and run
back. The other fellow had to pick up, one by one, all the eggs laid out on the street
and break them. Of course the highlight was the meeting of the two protagonists. If the
Page 158 runner managed to return while eggs were still on the street, he would pick them up and
throw them in the direction of the enemy; if, on the other hand, the other one managed
to break most of the eggs before the return, he would take the last ones and run with
them toward the other contestant and break them on that fellow. Since all those eggs
were rotten, the loser took an a dismal and very unaromatic look and shamefacedly ran
home to wash and put on fresh clothes. This ritual disappeared with the years: perhaps
the participants understood its light aesthetics, or the supply of rotten eggs diminished
and people turned toward the Simferopol bazaar with the help of its constantly
increasing number of merchants coming from Kronental. But I must say that the look of
the long line of bright eggs on the dark earth was nevertheless pretty. The days passed
quickly, we had to return to town and our studies again, and even though the van was
filled with all kinds of good things, we sat down in it with very different feelings and were
totally convinced that the town, the school and the homework were invented by a
people-disliking person. And the way to town went up the mountain, and the horses
themselves did not go so willingly on that road.
The estate and its management involved the parents ever more deeply; their
presence there was imperative and the question what to do with us arose more
frequently. The question concerned the time between Easter and summer vacation,
and the time between August 15 and October 1. It was decided quite unusually, and
depended on the number of children in school. After our sister returned from boarding
school and until her marriage she lived in town with us. Until then Serjezha and I lived
sometimes with Grandmother, sometimes I lived with Uncle Ivan Sergeevich,
sometimes Maria Igorovna lived with us. After our sister married, Serjezha was already
at the university and I was already in the 6th ( 10th) grade and mature enough so that I
was left in the house alone. Finally, after I finished, Edja was left alone, and a room
was rented for him where he was also fed, and the house was closed up. It was not a
happy picture to see the house totally empty, sad, dusty and apparently forgotten. Only
during the time of the renovation special servants were kept there, and that is how it
went until the end.
Page 159 In our time summer vacations began June 7th and lasted until the 7th or 15th of
August. This was a true and long happiness. The van appeared again but we often
managed without it, since the examinations occurred at different times in the older
classes, and we traveled one by one, and a wagon with a cushioned seat was used, or
else a light, open two-seater (tachanka). The village welcomed us with its summery
splendor, and at that time I made two phenological observations: currants and
gooseberries on June 7th, and grapes on August 7th, were still not quite ripe. And this
was not totally unimportant, because the bushes of the currants and gooseberries lined
both sides of the road beginning at the bridge across the upper ditch up to the mill, and
there were so many berries on them that not only we but anybody walking along could
eat them without worry. And one more observation: during the growing season of these
berries, there were no flaws or diseases on them. Beginning in 1907 we began our
household in Chadijevka, until 1920, and I never saw a ripe gooseberry - they all fell off
due to mealy mushrooms. In Agach-Eli and Kojash it was not better. Undoubtedly
these mushrooms spread so far and became so acclimatized that even spraying with a
vitriol solution did not help much. The same thing, but this time with apricots, happened
but on another farm. You remember that the whole top, beginning at the terrace to the
upper ditch was completely planted with apricots.
In good years we did not know
anymore where to put them, even the workers did not want to eat them anymore; we
sold them, dried them, cooked them, gave them to the pigs. But during the last years –
seven years in a row! – we had no apricots – everything froze during blooming time or
else after budding. I love apricots very much – this marvelous fruit – when it is picked
ripe and one eats it without transporting it, but I never planted a single apricot tree, I
was so angry at the frosts.
In the village we enjoyed total freedom, and one must say, we were totally idle. We
arose late, just in time for tea, and often the bell which called the workers to lunch,
would wake us. We “studied during the whole winter” and faithfully took examinations –
and therefore had the right to a rest. The parents never forced us into any work and this
Page 160 went so far that our sister never learned to cook. It is true that Serjezha and Edja rode
into the steppe when hay or wheat was harvested, but this was done more from the love
of horseback riding than any other considerations. We also did not read much: our own
books we had already read and we could not get new ones from anywhere. But still our
time was somehow or other always filled, and this was a happiness which we only
noticed later when there was no more of it. Father also did not drive to the fields every
day and his excursions carried a so-called ‘inspection feeling’ and occurred at all
different times. We especially loved going with him after midday. It was no longer so
miserably hot on the steppe as it was during the day. Horse flies and gadflies did not
bother the horses because they willingly ran at full trot along the smooth but unpaved
roads of the steppe. From afar one already could see the harvesting machines; the
grain was only cut by hand with a scythe when it was laying very low or was entangled
in weeds – and the rows of men gathering the stacks and the youngsters raking up the
traces. At the end of the row walked two rakers who raked the fields completely and
the spaces between the stacks for the last time. We watched the workers but soon
abandoned Father and went to the Gypsy encampment where smoke had been rising
for a while already and in the kettles standing in holes dug in the earth for cooking, and
water for dumplings was boiling and the ground was coverd with a coarse clean cloth.
Since forever this has been a typical Russian food which the Great-Russian workers ate
with little joy, but we always enjoyed it very much. The cook would take the dough into
her left hand and tear off pieces and throw them into the boiling water with her right
hand; when the dough had cooked enough to her satisfaction, she would add some
pieces of bacon and onion which had been fried beforehand, to the water – salt it – and
dinner was ready. We patiently awaited this moment; we ate from a wooden dish and
with such great appetite that at home we were no longer expected for dinner. And the
sun was already setting and the workers approached the encampment with the rakes
and scythes over their shoulders, the harvesters were silent and the oxen and horses
were given to eat. Everyone washed hands in the buckets with the water which had just
been delivered fresh from the estate, with a supply for tomorrow added, and when
Father had finished speaking with the head workman, everyone sat down in a circle,
Page 161 took out his “match” on which he would catch one huge dumpling after another, and a
spoon for getting at the sharp dumpling water. It is getting dark, the harnessed horses
are bored, snort and stamp their feet – and again we quickly travel through the steppe,
sometimes illuminated by moonlight, the moon majestically rising in the endless steppe.
The horses’ hoofs make a strange sound on the road and one would like to travel for a
long, long time. We were young, healthy, satiated; everything in our lives seemed so
certain – that the next day would be the same, would be good - why would we be
worried? We were happy.
Autumn neared, highschool started. Back then we were educated differently, and,
according to my conviction, the conviction of a person who has seen the education of
three generations, much better than now. Undoubtedly, our education was aristocratic:
it assumed an ideal of what at that time was considered an education and mercilessly
pushed aside everything and everybody who did not wish or was unable to subject
themselves to this ideal. Much has been written about the evil of classical education, as
if it deliberately held children back from obtaining a way to an education. There were
undoubtedly many children, not stupid but able, who got tangled up in the verbs and
grammar of the Greek language, but I boldly affirm that only a classical education
provides that luster of education and intrinsic ease of logical and beautiful thought,
which distinguishes the twentieth century and its intellectualism. But of course all of it
demanded effort, and we worked much, much more than was expected later, and very
differently – deeper and more carefully thought out. The center of study rested on the
work of the student, and this gave him a feeling of responsibility. One could not be a
somewhat decent student and graduate from high school without working at home, and
we spent much time preparing homework. But perhaps our generation, even in old age,
has not forgotten everything we had learned, and are appalled at the lack of grammar
of our children and grandchildren. And if I could, I would even cry from my grave: “back
to classical education especially in our Russia with its rich gifts, accompanied, however,
with no less desire for systematic thought.”
Page 162 “Children, come to drink your tea!” my brother Serjezha and I heard a voice from
above, and ran from our room down the cold staircase and further along the cold hall to
the dining room of the old house, where the samovar gaily hissed and boiled already,
and where the window glasses and the glass in the door leading to the hall were so
covered with steam that one could draw faces with terrible teeth and huge ears on
them. Warm, light and cozy. Our whole family was there because we seldom went out
in the evening, and our parents as well. The dining room was small, the table was
squeezed between the divan which stood against the exterior wall and the square
column which supported the ceiling - the dining room had been fashioned out of three of
Grandfather’s rooms. The column was therefore in the middle of one side of the table
and Serjezha’s and my seats were along each of the sides, so that we never saw each
other when at table. But this of course did not bother us, we felt free and could eat
freely, and altogether the evening tea lasted until it was time to go to sleep. There was
no end of talk and story-telling. After tea, our sister would often go to the piano and sing
for us. Our whole family was depressingly untalented, not one of us could draw the
simplest picture and generally we showed no talent with our hands, but we were rather
musical and had a good ear for music. Therefore we all studied music, but only our
sister had a voice which was good enough to truly sing. Edja played the violin well
enough, but Serjezha’s violin- and my pianoforte playing did not get far and Father often
would shake is head and would say: “and for what have I spent so much money on this
for you!” But we all sang, we sang rather decently, we knew all the romantic songs my
sister sang well and correctly, we knew and sang all folk songs, caught parts of operas
– and in general, music and song were not in short supply in our house. For a while
Serjezha sang in the highschool church choir and I learned many prayers of the
Orthodox church from him. He also sang in the choir of the Armenian church and there
together we tried to catch the sounds of the to us totally unknown Armenian language.
But when our sister sang, we did not bother her and only very quietly accompanied her,
Father with his soft bass and Serjezha and I with something in the middle, between a
bass and a tenor. Our hearing was developed to such a degree that sometimes one of
us would sing and the other one would accompany him. Thanks to this domestic music
Page 163 making, we arrived at the universities in different towns so well prepared that operas
and concerts were for us not something totally new, and, returning home for vacations,
we added much new, interesting material to our domestic repertoire.
In this way we grew up modestly, peacefully and confidently, and together our
friendship with each other and with our parents, grew. One after the other left the
family, started his own family, but our reciprocal bonds did not at all weaken because of
this. Each one of us had, or could have, his own house, but “house” meant our old
house, and when we returned to it or to Agach-Eli, we all felt as close to each other as
we used to back then, when we lived there together. We had kept no secrets from each
other, we confided to each other all our plans, hopes and expectations. Whatever
heated, lengthy and passionate arguments arose between us concerning some plan or
deed, we all were young and expansive, did not spare words and spoke openly, and
the arguments never reached some hurtful or prolonged point. We sincerely loved each
other, and each believed in the other, and to us dishonest and dirty intentions were
foreign and therefore all the arguments were basically attempts to clarify a mistake or a
statement which had not been thought through by one side or the other. How many
such arguments our comfortable terrace in Agach-Eli heard during warm summer
nights!
The candles in their holders had longed ago burned down, the moon had
already risen, until Mother would finally rise from her favorite armchair and would say:
“Let us go to bed, I have to get up tomorrow morning” and we, tired and hoarse, but still
not having exhausted all our arguments, would part like young cockerels who were
prevented from fighting.
I could still tell much, much more you about our childhood. About people whose
hands fashioned our estate, about the progenitor of all our farm dogs – our best guards
– Kudl and her daughter Arapka, about our horses, the last of which, our gray Sultan,
who transported you so many times in the cabriolet, you may remember, about our
favorite children’s books which slowly constituted a small library – but you would not
have the patience to read all that, and there is no time left for grandfatherly memories: I
Page 164 described everything at such length, that during that time we all had already grown up
and decided to marry. Not all at once, of course, but all, one might say, married out of
love. It is clear, of course, that from such romantics between 30 and 40 years old as we
basically were, one could expect nothing else. It seems to me, however, that we
contrived to develop a somewhat unusual view of marriage in our family. I titled this
chapter: the four of us. But basically, relative to that time, when all of us began to get
married, one should say: the six of us. Bit by bit we caught up with our parents, later
began to overtake them in our intellectual growth, but this not only did not diminish our
attachment to each other, but gave our parents the ability to give us total freedom to
develop and to stay close to us even more as we grew older, and the difference
between the two generations gently washed away, enabled the six of us to become true
friends. And so, when one after the other we began to introduce new people into our
family, our strong friendship underwent quite a trial – these new elements were so very
diverse. But, jumping ahead, I will say that our friendship withstood the test. Each time
there was an addition, I must say, the whole family was not very happy about the upcoming “event”. In our society happy tears and hot wishes for a future happiness were
not customary. “You have decided to marry” the family would say almost reticently.
“Oh well, we have lived quite happily without this until now, but if you want this, due to
our love for you we will accept your future half.” And since each of us thought the same,
we did not demand anything from each other and understood that it was not difficult to
come into the family, but to become the seventh, eighth, and so on, friend, was not
done so easily. In this manner, the friendship of the six remained and was not ruined,
and the new member of the family entered it with various degrees of closeness to the
others. For many years I used to say to Franz “wy” (you– the polite form), and changed
over to “ty” (familiar form) only when we truly became friends. With Serjezha’s wife I
used “ty” right away, and with Edja’s wife I always was with “wy”. My wife used “ty” with
Franz and with my sister “wy”. With this complicated mechanism it meant that we did
not obligate each other to a compulsatory spiritual closeness with our chosen ones and
did not feel slighted at all because not everyone in the family was equally delighted by
this or that choice. A feeling of honesty, tact and simple good will regulated all these
Page 165 nuances even during our everyday joint lives, and in this way the friendship of our
original family remained unassailed until the end, and I knew very well that if I tell my
brother something for which I need his counsel or his help, it did not at all mean that his
wife would necessarily know about this. And my wife never opened letters addressed to
me from my relatives, just as she did not open my letters from friends. And with our
wives we lived no less well and in friendship despite the fact that she may be friendlier
with one brother than with the other one. Thus, love did not impede friendship, and
friendship made peace with the rights of love.
9. Azra
“In the evenings the young daughter of the Sultan would go for walks” so gaily and
even somewhat frivolously began the novel by Rubenstein “Azra”, a verse of which my
sister often sang. “Every day she went to the fountain, shining with her beauty” the
novel continued. But it turned out that every day she met a slave who, of course, only
looked at her from afar. And the princess could not tolerate this and went up close to
him and quite awkwardly and agitated, asked him: “tell me your name and where you
appeared from?” “Zavus Mahomet, from Zemek, I am from the house of poor Azras,
once we have loved, we die!” That is all. It has remained in my memory for the
following reason. One summer a good friend of Serjezha was our guest, a pleasant
person, smart, an excellent worker – a physician, Petr Nikolaevich Diatrontov, in charge
of the Bacteriological Department in Odessa. Somehow I remember that sitting on the
terrace, the talk turned to family life, as always in our house, it was noisy and
boisterous. The usually quiet Diatrontov, smoking without pause, declared: “what are
you talking about, you all are Azras”. This was so unexpected that the discussion
stopped immediately in the midst of laughter, but the word Azra remained in our family’s
dictionary for a long time, because in the poisonous remark of P.N. was a grain of truth.
Of course it did not occur to any of us to die of love, all of us approached the question of
marriage with a clean soul and a loving heart and thought only to obtain inner harmony,
Page 166 not harboring any other aims. Whether this was stupid or smart, I will not judge, I will
only say that all four couples lived their lives in a friendly way, and peacefully, lived in
wealth and poverty, and in our families not only were no big quarrels or disagreements,
but it was simply difficult to imagine our couples separating or having any special
personal interests.
And it was especially interesting and humorous because such
unions occurred in all four families alike. And although all four of us were people of the
same type, our partners were of totally different characters, and as it seems to me, for
example, my wife did not share a single character trait with my brother Edja’s wife. One
could of course simply say that all four of us where under the thumb of our halves, and
then the facts would be easily explained. But then we would necessarily have had to
argue with each other – our partners were so different in all aspects. And until the day
when we parted and never saw each other again, there was not one large quarrel in our
family! I write all this in order to explain why I can describe and imagine the fate of each
one of us only together with their partners, from the day on which that pair appeared.
I. Sofia and Franz.
I have had to overcome a great reluctance to decide to write about these two
people, so unendingly close to me, so noble, kind and, in the beginning, so happy and
later the most miserable of us all. It is so painful to write about my sister, not knowing
whether she is still alive, whether she is suffering from cold and hunger, or if she has
died, then after what torments? And this is the closest and dearest person to me of my
generation, whom I cannot help with anything. But if I do not write about them, then
nobody will ever tell you about them and what sort of people they both were. And only
for that reason I will write about them what I can, but I know beforehand that my story
will be tormented and painful: one cannot write well about that which is too close to one.
Sister Sonja – during our childhood we called her Sofie - received her name in
honor of Grandmother Sofia Ivanovna, and in her appearance and soul resembled her.
So our father who loved her more than any of us, always said. She was born March 10
Page 167 of the year 1867 and Mother, speaking of the unstable Crimean weather always said:
“on the day when Sofie was born, Ferdinand went to Golgar in the morning but had to
turn back while on the way because there arose such a snow storm.” I remember
nothing about her childhood, only something like a shadow, the figure of a little girl in
the brown uniform of a high school student, in our children’s room. And only one funny
but characteristic episode clearly stands in front of my eyes. I am laying in bed but am
not yet asleep. Along the wall is a small table brightly illuminated by a lamp with a
green shade. My brother and sister sit at the table and do their homework. Suddenly
one could hear Father’s steps. And my sister jumps up, quickly picks up a book laying
before her, puts it on the chair and sits down on it. It was only much later that I
understood what had happened. In high school my sister performed so badly that
Father had to go there sometimes, and as I heard later, my sister was only partially at
fault. The director of the school at that time was Mundt – I remember that last name
because she was so often mentioned in our family. For some reason she disliked my
sister –there was some sort of sharp collision between her and Father – I do not know
the reason, was the collision before the dislike or did the dislike follow this collision – but
the whole situation ended when it was decided to take my sister out of the highschool.
At that time there were no other educational institutions in our town and therefore Father
took my sister to Odessa and placed her into a private boarding school - GauenliebKlark. This was not such an easy decision; at that time it cost the parents dearly, it was
far and she was never allowed to travel alone, and Father brought her and took her
back. In the end all these worries and expenses were worth it. My sister quickly
became one of the best students in her school, learned the French and German
languages, and upon graduation received a certificate for teaching, the same as was
given by the public highschool, but in addition also an excellent upbringing and a more
cultured circle of friends in our town. Father, as always in such cases, did not mind the
money, and Sister took piano and singing lessons, and her clear and deep contralto
was a joy for the whole family throughout our whole lives. She only came home for
summer vacations because crossing the stormy Black Sea in November was of so little
pleasure for her and for Father. A real day of celebration was her return home after a
Page 168 brilliant graduation from the boarding school in 1886. Instead of the barely successful
student of the high school came a highly accomplished young woman with excellent
grades and accompanied by the love of all the students of the boarding school –
teachers and girlfriends, who gave her an album with a silver remembrance name plate
on the cover, and with photographs of all her friends, large and small. My sister was not
pretty but was a charming young lady.
Of medium height, she had inherited the
Nalbandov tendency toward corpulence, had the kind and tender face of her
grandmother, with soft gray eyes and a charming smile and hair of a pretty chestnut
color, quiet and gay but not loud - she always was the center and idol of our whole
family. As I have written before, for her homecoming we remodeled the house in town,
and in the village we renovated a room next to the bedroom of our parents where later
Gleb lived during your time.
With her arrival our house immediately became
invigorated, became fuller and more interesting. All three of us brothers adored our
dear sister, and there was a reason for this. Always even-tempered and tender, she
was a good comrade and friend, and one could come to her with everything and always,
knowing one would not get a sharp response or bored attention. I do not want to write
an extatic panegyric, I only want to be honest, but I unsuccessfully search in my
memory for a single case where my sister raised her voice, and not only with us, but in
ordinary lifeas well. But this was not the result of indifference or laziness. During
arguments she could be passionate, was able to defend her views and to attack the
opponent or guilty one fiercely and persistently, her gray-blue eyes shone and burned,
but all this was somehow soft and always without insult, without yelling and sharp
expressions, I would say with the precise restraint of an Eastern woman who had
obtained all the rights of the Western world, but who had not forgotten the rules of
decency of the East.
In her, more than in any of us, was the restraint and good
upbringing as it was in our Father, and perhaps therefore she was closer to him than the
rest of us. Her influence on us brothers was modest and well-meaning – and that is
how it was for all our lives – and without her we would not have become what we were
in our lives.
Page 169 With her arrival our parents also became happier. Father became less somber and
pensive. The music in the house and my sister’s beautiful singing often gave him much
pleasure and accomplished more: our not very sociable Father, together with my sister,
joined a circle of music lovers and began to sing in the choir, where his soft bass was
treasured, and at home he studied his bass parts together with my sister, but did not
forget (as the gay Schlee families made fun of him) to go to the window during the
singing and look in the direction of Agach-Eli to see whether the rain clouds which he
desired, were gathering. Our eternally working mother suspended her usual demands,
did not wake her daughter in the morning, did not ask for her help in the kitchen and
general household, (at that time there were already enough servants), and since my
sister did not love doing this, she remained throughout her life an indifferent
housekeeper and understood very little of kitchen glory. They say that only in Serbia
did she learn to cook very well.
– But it was not only the inside atmosphere of our
house which changed. With her arrival it lost its isolation and now was constantly full of
a great variety of young people. My sister enjoyed great success and young people
swirled around her.
A few times she sang in concerts of the musical society, and her
voice and manner of singing brought her new admirers. Our Armenian priest, intelligent
and cultured, handsome, old Father Zachary asked her to sing in church and on Good
Friday, during the festive evening service, she sang the famous “Crucifix” by Far. Her
voice sounded beautiful with the accompaniment of the harmonica in our high and
spacious church, but not knowing the Armenian language – and was there a
translation? – she sang in French. (And this caused talk, and our old Armenians were
not pleased with this novelty. And soon these old Armenians obtained a transfer of our
Father Zachary, of course not because of the singing, and we never again had a priest
like him). At home she sang for us almost every evening, and ever so often I went to
sleep during her singing. And perhaps for that reason those memories of her songs are
so deep and alive in my mind. For a while she was seriously courted by a member of
the provincial court – Rjazinov, who played the violincello well and often came to us
with his instrument and then a trio was organized. In one word, there was no lack of
young men who courted her, but my sister did not think of marriage, and as it turned
Page 170 out, her heart was not quite free, as from as long ago as Odessa. Already during the
first summer after her graduation, a young man came to our village, very much
impressing me, then a young village boy, with his bearing, perfect manners, and as it
seemed to me then, wonderful suits. He was our guest for one week and then left,
having made a good impression on all of us. He came from a good family, and was still
a student, and I think that this was the reason why their relationship did not end with a
marriage. In the same winter my sister, accompanied by Maria Egorovna Nogaseva
went to Petersburg for a visit with her Aunt Masha, who was there for some courses,
and I vaguely heard at that time, to settle this affair. I believe she made a condition for
accepting him, which was that he finish his studies and thus be able to support a future
family, but she realized that he did not have enough character for this. All this I only
heard bit by bit, that is, nobody spoke of this in the family, and perhaps my sister’s
feelings also were not deep enough; all this did not prevent her from spending a gay
time in Petersburg and from returning home with her usual quiet and steady demeanor.
In this way we lived in a friendly and happy way for two years. We, the brothers,
became especially close to our sister when the parents stayed in the village, and we
and our sister lived in town and went to high school. This truly was a wonderful youthful
time. No guests and visits took our sister from us, she was always tender with us,
gladly helped when help was needed, and she and Serjezha became especially good
friends. Young people still swirled around her but she did not give hope to anybody, did
not consider marriage and declined all offers. But among the aspirants one began to
stand out with his persistence in courting her. That was Franz Schnaider.
It is necessary to tell you about the Schnaider family in more detail.
My
greatgrandfather Sevastian had a brother, Petr, who probably lived in Sevastopol. I do
not know whether he already owned a restaurant there or was occupied with something
else, but his son, Franz Petrovich, already was a prominent person during the
Sevastopol War, owned a large restaurant and during the war acquired much money
and a large house. He played a part during the war and was a commander in the local
militia. He undoubtedly was practical, very smart, adroit and not squeamish, and very
Page 171 successful when compared to other German colonists. At the time of which I am writing
now, he was a very wealthy person.
In Simferopol he owned three houses: the
restaurant “Golden Anchor” at the corner of Salchik Street and Fabr. (later he sold it to
Achkinaz who built the “Europe” restaurant in its place, which you all remember). The
“Petersburg” restaurant occupied the whole block of the Pushkinsky Street between the
Evpatoria Street and the Gymnasium side street, a huge area stretching from our
church along the Dvorjanskaja Street and the whole Pushkinsky Street to the Kubler
house. During my childhood this house belonged to General Vzlitnev and had such a
huge abandoned courtyard that the circus which sometimes came to Simferopol set its
tents up there. Besides that he owned 5 thousand desjatin (ca 13,500.00 acres) of land
–“Djav-djurek” – located next to Kronental, and in addition he bought for Franz, and in
his name, “Kojash” which also had more the 1,500.00 desjatin (4,050.00 acres) of land.
The “Petersburg” restaurant was the best in town for a long time, provided a huge profit
for F.N. and all important faces in town dined there, and the important people of the
district came there during their visits to Simferopol, and this gave F.N. the opportunity to
be more or less close to all of them. He was already given the name of honorary citizen
a long time ago, received orders including Order of Anna, second grade, and it was his
dream, but not achieved, to receive the Order of Vladimir and thus to become a
hereditary nobleman.
However regardless how many attempts he made, however
many people he wined and dined, the poor old man did not succeed - everything was in
vain. The local town supervisor and the local representative of the nobility N.I. Ivanov
and the chairman of the land district Vjatkin, not only ate there but also sent home those
dishes which they especially liked, did their utmost to obtain this order for F.N., but for a
“Vladimir” all this was too trifling. When, age around 65, he had a photograph taken of
himself with all his orders, he could only list the old ones at the bottom. He sent this
portrait to many people, and it was especially impressive in Kronental. He was not a
mean person, but cold in a German way and basically indifferent to everything in life
except his wealth. But even though wealthy, he kept on working, and every morning, in
summertime already at 5 or 6,
one could see him walking to the bazaar to buy
necessities for the restaurant. Thus it continued until he rented out the restaurant and
Page 172 removed himself from it. He was married to Varvara Ivanovna Vetuel, whose family
owned the restaurant “Vetuel” in Sevastopol. I did not know her well, but according to
Franz she was a good, kind person, took a small interest in her husband’s work, and
dedicated herself to her family. She died before Franz’ marriage and during her last
years suffered from something like melancholia. Her children loved her very much and
were much closer to her than to their father who was not very interested in them. They
had four children. The oldest son, Stanislav, was a handsome and talented person. He
finished high school and went to the Petersburg university, but due to the climate and
the life which the wealthy young man led there, who knew nothing about monetary
restraint, he soon fell ill with acute tuberculosis from which he died very quickly. You
may remember the chapel which was built over his grave. The second son was Franz;
he was born February 19, 1864. After him came Josef, probably younger by two years,
and a sister, Anna, who was born in 1868. These last two were the representatives of
the German clan, perfectly created to illustrate the outward signs of the German race.
Both were very light blond, with blue eyes, pink cheeks, usually filled with a pleasant
smile, reserved and mild in manners, with soft and pleasant voices. Jozja, as we called
him, was very handsome in high school and was a student at the university. Anna was
not as beautiful as her brother, but with her long braids was a real “Gretchen” as she
always was portrayed in the “Faust” theater productions. Josza finished high school and
went to Moscow to the university, but having studied for about two years, ended his
studies and permanently settled down in Simferopol. All attempts to find an occupation
for him ended in nothing. He was a terribly kind, cultured person, but nothing interested
him. He did not drink and did not smoke, despite his handsomeness he did not court
anybody, sometimes lived in the village and sometimes in town, he tried to keep house,
he tried to work in Dzjav-djurek – nothing succeeded. He had no interest in anything.
His relatives tried to marry him off but this also did not succeed; it happened that he had
a bride, but at the last moment he declined. Gradually he became more and more
melancholy; for a time he seemed to overcome this and married Natalia Aleksandrovna
Ulbina, whose first husband was Dtakson. This was already at the time when I lived in
Petersburg. During one of my trips I visited the young pair and with horror saw that
Page 173 poor Jozja was like a doll who moved at the command of his wife. In 1915 I saw them
again, in Petersburg, when they already had their daughter, Varja, but Jozja sat through
the whole visit without speaking. And so he died, I believe in 1917, not having come out
of a state of apathy and melancholy.
Anna Franzovna was a very unusual person and lived her whole live like a nun.
Always reserved and silent, she was somehow passively good, never hurting anybody
in her whole life, but could adhere to her principles almost ruthlessly. Nothing external
really interested her, more than anything in the world she liked to read books, she did
not like to be with company and when she was at our house for some family
celebrations, she preferred to sit in a corner close to the bookshelves and look through
the books there. During her high school years she still would come to some children’s
evenings with us, and Serjezha, her contemporary, would be her escort, but with the
years this discontinued; she dressed very simply, mostly in dark colors, and kept
reading, reading all the time. She had several girlfriends with whom she could talk for
hours, and sometimes they exploited her greatly despite their liberal attitudes. Anja not
only did not appreciate her wealth, but felt burdened by it, as if it were a crime and all
the money which she received while she was taking courses, and all the money which
she had she did not spend on herself but somehow around herself. Again somehow
passively – I do not remember that Anja ever gave her brother’s children a present – but
of course they were showered with presents already without her. She found herself a
husband. For a while there was talk in our large family that Uncle Matja thought of
marrying her, and I remember that during one dinner which Franz Petrovich gave in
honor of getting the order of “Anna”, second grade, after Franz’ marriage, Matja gave a
speech during which he congratulated him in regards to “Anna”, and kidded about
wishing he himself had an Anna. But of course Uncle Matja never approached Anja and
she herself never thought of him in that way, perhaps because in her heart she already
carried her future husband, Konstantin Erastovich Dobrovolny, the son of an admiral,
who was Jozja’s comrade; he was very handsome, finished high school with a gold
medal, and with his reserved nature was very suited to Anja. He certainly was not an
ordinary person, but very peculiar and even strange. After high school he passed an
Page 174 examination to enter the Mining Institute and remained there through the 3rd year. But
then he left and, as people said, because the work of a mining engineer did not give him
the opportunity to serve people, in the true meaning of the word, he changed to the
medical department in Moscow. This step cost him many years, especially since he
had no funds and had to support himself somehow at the university. When he finished
high school I was in the 2nd grade, but in Moscow we met when both of us were
students. We met but did not become close, even though K.E. already was Anja’s
bridegroom and she and I always had a good relationship.
But I belonged to the
capitalistic group which, I believe, K.E. rejected and despised endlessly. Of course this
and his rejection of a brilliant career as an engineer, only elevated him in Anja’s eyes,
and she always called him “Count Kostja” after the name of a hero of conscience who
was so popular at that time – Kota-Murlyk ( Prof. of Petersburg Univ. Vagner). When
they married, still during the time when Dobrovolny was a student, they had even
sharper relations to their homeland and to her wealth. I remember with how much
anger Franz spoke about the short time when K.E. and Anja were living with him in
Moscow and the husband demonstratively would not eat anything that Franz would
bring home that he considered beyond and above what a poor student would be able to
afford. All these trifles attest to the characteristics of the deep divide between the
capitalist land owners and the socialists. Of course Anja was on her husband’s side,
and did not hide this, and of course our relations with them stopped completely. We met
D. only once more when he came to me as a member of a deputation of professors of
the Yalta University – and again he was a representative of a different ideology. We
met one final time more, in 1919, after Franz’ murder; Anja came to me to find out
whether it would be unpleasant for Sonja to see her. I of course convinced her of the
opposite, and then Anja spent a few days in Kojash. The Dobrovolny’s remained in the
Crimea.
Franz was a totally different person, had no resemblance whatsoever with his
brother and sister. He was not handsome. Of medium height, much darker, he differed
from them by having excellent health, was hardy and not at all spoiled. His small gray
Page 175 eyes shone with energy and liveliness, he could look tenderly, but he could also get
almost devilishly angry. He was kind, kind with active deeds, he not only never denied
anybody his or her wish if he could fulfill it, but often, too often, helped a stranger’s need
without even being asked.
He was naturally intelligent.
His living and reading
developed in him a deep understanding of life and the ability to figure out his
surroundings, but the total absence of a systematic education and its inner discipline
bothered him throughout his life. He easily caught the meaning of everything that was
new to him, regardless whether in the estate area or public and government affairs, but
it was beyond his ability to unite this knowledge into a system, to figure out its basics
and develop a well-thoughout plan of action, to be constant and be guided by it; it
bored him, and eagerly having begun something, and to remove all obstacles in the
heat of the beginning to with great inventiveness, he sooned cooled down if the situation
needed persistence and was full of tiresome minutae. He lacked the usual Germanic
characteristics. Of course these deficits could be explained by his lack of education and
upbringing. He finished the 2nd grade in the Simferopol highschool, then he switched to
the Sevastopol scientifically oriented school, and there, under the supervision of his
local relatives, he spent some time together with Al. Matv., with whom he remained
friendly for the rest of his life; however, he did not do well in school there either, and
attempted to live without his parents in the loose atmosphere of the port city. From then
on everything went in the conventional manner: he learned the practical aspects of
agriculture in Djzav-dzurek where at that time Nikolai Petrovich Schnaider was in
charge, the brother-in law of Franz Petrovich, and then moved into town and began to
assist his father in the “Petersburg” restaurant.
undoubtedly
brought
him
great
practical
And that, and some other work,
knowledge
and
also
cleverness,
resourcefulness and savvy to a more than ordinary degree, but all this was so
premature and in such a one-sided direction, that the fact that he did not falter and
totally come undone can only be explained by his truly, deeply embedded good
qualities. He began all this work when he was still a boy, when he still was called
“Franchik” by his family, and this name stuck to him for a long time, so that the AgachEli Tatars did not know him by any other name and called him Franchik-schorbadzhi,
Page 176 that is, Mister Franchik, even though he had already been a married person for a long
time. The guests who were forever changing, and even the steady customers of the
“Petersburg” restaurant despite the differences in age, easily used “ty” (familiar “you”)
and happily called the funny, solicitous son of the owner of the best restaurant, “ty”, and
bit by bit there were two names: Franz Petrovich Schnaider, and to differentiate them,
Franchik Schnaider. And while the simple-hearted Tatars or people who had a close
relationship with him did this, nothing could be said against this “popularization”. Just
the opposite – how we laughed when he once received a letter from a former worker
and on the envelope it was addressed to “Franchik, Simferopol”. But many people
made a ridicule out of this name. And, for example, Count V.A. Obolensky, who
personally owed very, very much to Franz, was not ashamed to write, even in the
memorial obituaries of all fallen members of the Cadet Party, in which about one
hundred lines were dedicated to Franz, with mean spirited ridicule, that “whom everyone
in town called Franchik” – and thus the reader would retain the idea of something small,
banal, whom to murder was not on the same level as those, who were not murdered,
leaders of the party, of whom Oblolensky put himself in first place, of course. It is
unthinkable that during Franz’ life Obolonsky would have addressed him thus, or would
have been his friend. Obolensky was only one of the many people whom Franz helped
when the count himself, and his family, were in a hopeless situation. But fortunately not
all people were like Count Obolensky.
I can say with pride that toward the end of his life Franz was the most popular
person not only in the town of Simferopol, but far beyond its borders as well. Everyone
knew him, but not as a weatlthy person or an active one, but simply as an honest, good
and kind person, whom anybody could approach and ask for help or advice. This was
of course especially true for our town, and here Franz was always surrounded by
people. Some came to his house, others caught him in the street, and we often laughed
at him and said that it took him two hours to walk two blocks because so many people
stopped him on the way. Of course most of the activity concerned monetary matters in
one way or another: one simply needed one hundred or two hundred rubles, the other
Page 177 one asked for a promissory note for an extended credit, the third needed him to push
through his promissory note which the banks eyed with distrust, because “Franchik’s”
word weighed heavily, the fourth asked for such a complicated favor that a lawyer or
attorney had to be consulted. One had to be a very bad person, a merchant-speculator
or terribly vexing, for Franz to deny him help. Everything was done immediately, right
on the sidewalk, money was given without getting a receipt, and so forth. In what way
all this did not get mixed up in Franz’ head, nobody could understand, because he
never kept any notes; sometimes, of course, it got tangled up, and then he quietly paid
out of his own pocket and patiently waited, sometimes for years, for a return of the
money, and often he did not wait at all. The circle of his “clients” was not limited at all,
and was of undetermined character.
When banking committees audited their
promissory notes, it turned out that everybody owed F.F.: high officials, noblemen,
estate owners down to small Jewish merchants, and teachers, and coachmen, and
doctors.
Everybody in the bank was already used to this, nothing was out of the
ordinary which would arouse the interest the members of the banking committee. Just
as striking were the sums which F.F. “borrowed”. I will give you only two examples. In
all of Crimea, the “Choty” estate was praised; it was situated in the Karasubarski plain
and belonged to an old noble family named Rud. It was renowned for its huge and
beautiful orchards.
During our time the owner was a retired Hussar company
commander Stepan Nikolajevich Rud and his wife Marija Orestovna, maiden name of
Brams, also a Crimean estate owner from Alm. These were two interesting people
about whom it would be interesting to write in more detail. They were two true old
people of the gentry, with all its good and weak qualities.
Together they were
wonderful, industrious and loved their estate immensely. They did not have children,
and they lived permanently in Choty and brought their orchards to such an admirable
condition that people came to study them. The orchards encompassed about 270 acres
and to service them they had several gardeners, and to assist them, they hired several
young people and over time the estate turned into a sort of practicing school, graduating
some excellent gardeners and pruners. The Ruds gladly experimented with all new
methods in the care of gardens, and tried out new types of fruit, and instructors and
Page 178 specialists liked to come to them for advice. But the name of Rud was not famous only
for its fruit business. The former Hussar was also an excellent breeder of race horses
and had such stables that the stallion Miltrad (if I am not mistaken, one of the
descendants of the, at that time very famous English horse Galtimor) won first prize at
the All-Russia Derby. In this manner, the Choty estate was famous in many ways, but,
oh my, all these distinctions were very expensive and materially paid very badly for
themselves.
An excellent man, personally very modest and undemanding, Stepan
Nikolajevich did not know how to count money and became more and more entangled,
despite the fact that his estate lay in a fortunate strip of land and enjoyed good soil. He
did not have the heart to halt some of his industries which took so much labor during the
summer, until the actual catastrophy.
Having no money, St. Nik. did not purchase
enough feed for the horses, and just at the time when the last feed had been eaten, the
roads were so impassable that it was totally impossible to bring more feed, and many
horses died of hunger. Riding (on a horse) to Choty at the first possible time, Franz told
me with tears in his eyes, that the wooden barns were chewed up by the animals dying
of hunger. Of course this was a crime and negligence that could not be explained
byanything, and even such a horrible end to horse breeding could not save Rud. They
managed to stay on a few more years, but could not handle their debts and the interest
charged for them, and the bank put the estate up for sale. Stepan Nikolajevich was
threatened with total ruin, on his estate lay a huge second mortgage by the famous
Tatar Karaim Abram-Krim, Rud’s neighbor, who for a long time had been anxiously
eyeing and wanted to transfer the wonderful orchards into his own hands. In order to
save Choty about 200 thousand rubles had to be found. S.N. himself was already
fatally ill – he had cancer – and his wife, Marija Orestovna turned to Franz.
The
relations between the two families reached back a long time and were very friendly, but
Franz was not able to help by himself alone. But this did not deter him. It must be said
that it was not only the desire to help the Ruds, but also his hatred of the usurious A.
Krim. Legally everything was in order, and it would have been possible for Rud to pay
the interest, but Krim was not to be moved. Franz found two more rich men, and the
three obtained the necessary money from the banks, and the Rud estate was taken off
Page 179 the market. Krim was furious, but Franz rejoiced. Soon a buyer was found, and the
estate went for the right price into the honest, good hands of Anna Antonovna Reveliat,
and it could develop even further. Not only were all debts covered, but there was some
remuneration for Franz’ partners for obtaining the money from the bank, and a very
good sum was left, which S.N. who had already died, did not need any more, but which
secured the old age of Marija Orestovna.
Second example. About two months after Franz’ death, a Tatar whom I did not know
at all, came to me. “You do not know me,” he said to me “and it is not necessary.
Franz Franzovich lent me 100 rubles a long time ago. Nobody knows about this. Now
he is dead and I brought that money to you. Give it to his wife.” I do not know whether
you remember the small green piece of land with the old pussy willows which grew on
the side of the small stream between the wall of Chadjievka and the Tatar mill? And do
you remember that in the middle of summer, almost every year, a typical Gypsy wagon
with a torn top came, and from within spilled out a row of half-naked Gypsies? They
settled on the bank of the river and lived there for two or three weeks, cooked
something or other over a campfire and slept on the bank and in the wagon. This was
the family of the Gypsy Osman, whom Alek. Matveevich always called Franz’ adjutant.
This Gypsy fed himself and his family through some business which nobody knew
anything about, always hanging around the bazaar, but when things were bad for him,
he always turned to Franz, always counting on his help. Franz, due to his former
restaurant custom was at the bazaar almost every day and faithful Osman was always
close by. We all laughed about this friendship, but Franz explained that Osman was of
the same age, and they had known each other since childhood. And he never forgot to
inform Osman if some misfortune happened to a horse and it had to be killed. Those
occasions were simply festivals for Osman and his clan. Perhaps that is why he came
to our plain as a guest, we teased Franz.
But Franz did not only help people.
I am not speaking of all the philantropical
societies and all the donations - that was a matter of course. All enterprises of a
Page 180 beneficial nature received help from him. Do you remember the polished white stairs in
the house in Kojash which led from the front to the library? It was a memorial to the
great sum which Franz gave to establish a cooperative of furniture- and cabinet makers
who wanted to work independently. It did not work out. In order to help them, Franz
ordered these stairs from them, and when we asked him how much they had cost him,
he only smiled and said: “expensive.” And this is also only an example.
I think that this empathy with the misery of others, this inner beauty of the soul
opened for Franz the way to my sister’s heart, not right away at all, but only after she
had become better acquainted with him. Even though we were distant relatives of the
Schnaiders – Mama was a niece-in-law of Fr. Petrovich – there was no close
acquaintance between our houses. Mama very seldom visited Varvara Ivanovna, and
Serjezha and Sonia were sometimes invited to some children’s celebration – and that
was all. Father did not like Fr. Petr. because of his unsqueamish activities; he never set
foot into the famous “Petersburg” restaurant where one could always see, besides Fr.
Petr., all the “flavors” of Simferopol’s large and small dealers. They also did not mingle
during social endeavors, where Fr. Petr. always supported people who were useful to
him, whatever their moral physiognomy would be, and therefore such people, like the
town supervisor, H.I. Ivanov, member of the governing body of Kazar, and so forth,
were in league with him, but Father fought them as much as he could. Franz Petrovich,
just the opposite, despised the “lack of business sense” in my father and in his heart
could not forgive him for never asking him for help or advice, and was already spoiled
by the general admiration of his wealth. In this way, even though my sister and Franz
were of the same age, they did not know each other well. They only began to meet
later, during the summer, when Sonja would come for vacations and Franz lived in Djavdzurek. I remember one summer in Djav-djurek when there was a whole assembly of
young people, among them Jozja with his tutor, I.M. Neddakosom, who was shortly
supposed to pull him through some examinations. He was a student, Estonian, a very
nice and intelligent person, especially interested in geology (later he worked in the
Crimea for a long time as an assistant to Prof. Golavninsky who was a former hydroPage 181 geologist of the regional government). The young people often came to Agach-Eli, and
all of them – “in corpora” - courted my sister and listened to her singing. The hopeful
geologist gave proof of this.
You remember that on the highest mountain around
Agach-Eli was a burial mound. It was the highest point in the plain, and from there was
an especially good outlook all around. Below one could see the whole Bulganak plain
from Kolumbstel to the end of the German colony, behind this, the not very deep
steppes of the plain, and parallel, to the right, truly majestically shone the tent of GattyrDaga, and beyond that the sea glistened in the sun. In the mornings, when the sun still
did not stand very high, its rays illuminated especially starkly the white houses of
Evpatoria and despite the distance of forty versts (ca 20 miles) one could clearly see not
only the white strip of houses, but also their reflection in the darker branches of the gulf.
The steppe in this area was as smooth as a table, and soft, completely translucent
streams of air rose from the step which was warming after the cool night. One cannot
paint this picture, but those who saw it also will not forget it. A left turn, and with
binoculars at hand, you could clearly see the ships which were leaving from Sevastopol
to Evpatoria, which was also 20-30 versts (ca 10-15 miles) distant. And then one fine
day we found the letters in this same burial ground, gathered from stones in the steppe,
about one meter long, spelling out “SOFIJA” on its incline. There could not be a
second of doubt that only a person who loved long walks, could have written the letters
– our hopeful geologist, and he did not deny it.
The writing lay there for many years,
and who would have destroyed it? - and besides us, the children when we played there,
and the shepherds, nobody visited the burial grounds. Many years later, without our
knowledge, a group of military topographers came and erected there a huge, awkward
three-legged structure of long pine logs for geodesic studies. They probably used the
stones for pounding the logs into the earth. With this unwanted intrusion the peace of
the forgotten graves was ruined, and the words of young love as well. The gray logs
prevented the eyes from seeing the formerly grand view. Life forcefully entered our life
in Agach-Eli.
Years passed.
The logs rotted, the structure fell over, but nobody
touched it. Later the logs themselves disappeared, and again only the lonely burial
ground was left, but it seemed to have become unclean, spoiled by human touch. Have
Page 182 the wounds inflicted on it healed or will they ever grow over?
At that time I was a boy 9-10 years old, and barely remember whether Franz came
to visit our house in town very often. During that time, I do not remember exactly when,
his health suffered. His parents clearly remembered the death of his older brother at
that same age, and sounded the alarm, and Franz went to Switzerland for six months or
longer; Marija Matveevna was studying in Bern at that time. This trip caused a turning
point in Franz’ life.
He saw true culture for the first time, and realized the
unpreparedness with which he entered adult life. At first he lived in Bern, but after
having looked around, left and traveled to other cities and – I believe in Vevey – he met
a young American, Neal, - who was slightly older. They quickly became friends and
stayed together during the second half of Franz’ sojourn in Switzerland. Neal was an
experienced traveler and showed and taught the impressionable young friend many
things. According to general opinion, Franz returned from abroad a different person.
He had learned to take care of himself and his clothing, let go of some of his former
habits which were sometimes of an unpleasant and even offensive type, and learned to
be truly cultured in an European manner. Of course his education had not improved,
but he began to read more – but until the end of his life never loved belletristic and did
not understand the beauty of “made-up stories.” On the contrary, he learned to love
real history and sometimes read it addictively. He especially loved Napoleon and could
talk about him endlessly. His love for my sister was not secretive – he was not the type
of person who could hide anything which he felt. This did not help, and given my
sister’s character, only hindered the matter, and for a long time his courtship led to
nothing, and they came to a definite understanding only in the fall of 1887. My sister
accepted his proposal, but Father emphatically opposed this marriage. I have already
written that he loved his daughter with a deep and tender love, I think he felt that she
was the closest to his soul of all of us, and he was right. In my sister there was more of
that abstracted contemplation, removed from daily life, that search for the ideal, which
lived in both of them, but Nature had not given them enough instinct to fight for it. Both
loved people – and feared them, one due to bitter experience, the other intuitively,
Page 183 which so bitterly turned out to be right later towards the end of her life; both wanted to
believe in people, and were clever enough to understand that they did not warrant that
believe, and were too proud to mix in with the crowd and defend their truth. And now he
had to give away such a daughter, young, pretty, clever and talented, to somebody
though honest, and despite all his shortcomings and lack of sufficient education, decent
and of good character – but imbued with the idle life of F.N. Schnaider, his father. And
our kind, dear and soft Father protested. But protested alone, that is, Mama had no
objections to this marriage, and all close relatives were in delight about this brilliant
match which my sister desired. Only Serjezha was angry about his sister’s decision.
They were so close that alone the idea of a husband for Sonja was difficult for him, but
besides that, something in the opinions and life of Franz did not please him, already
then being a populist in the style of the survivors of the 1860’s. I understood all this
much later, but at that time a 13-year old boy did not have his own opinions, but only
gathered and registered his observations.
Father did not insist on a renunciation, but insisted that the wedding would not take
place for one more year. I think that with this he pursued two objectives: that my sister
would reconsider her decision, and he wanted to see how true Franz’ break with his
former life, which truly had given enough good reasons to be objectionable even to a
less demanding father than ours, was. For him, who always so highly valued education
and up-bringing, it was particularly difficult to give his most beloved to a person who had
neither one nor the other, but who loved her unconditionally, totally, steadily,
undividedly, for her whole life. He knew his “Azra”, and with great pain tore her from his
loving heart, and later, only during intimate conversations with my sister, he would say
with melancholy “ you have totally become a Schnaider.” This was his only scolding,
and somehow it was like a small excommunication from our homey monastery, which
he used not only toward her but also to his other children. He knew the strength and
effect of such a scolding and used it only seldom and in order to influence his small,
friendly and beloved herd with his opinion.
Page 184 The year designated by my father passed and nothing had changed. Franz diligently
worked in Djav-dzurek and not long after F.Petr. bought Kojash in the former’s name, he
lived there often, also in winter, but each Saturday, in any type of weather, sometimes
even on horseback when the roads were impassable, he came to Simferopol in the
evening with a bouquet of flowers and a box of candy for his fiancée. In the summers
he had lunch with us on Sundays, and then he and my sister would walk to Kojash and
roam around there until the evening, planning their future household. I have already
written that at home my sister was not very interested in housekeeping. But Franz’
passionate love for the earth also carried her along, and it was difficult not to be
delighted with Kojash – truly the best corner of our spacious steppe. After Numan,
Kojash changed hands constantly. For a while it belonged to Dr. Heiman, who was
even buried there together with his wife, but then it fell into Karaim Komen’s hands, then
to Aga and then, for a rather large sum, to Franz. But basically nothing was left from all
those owners. There stood the landowner’ house, typical for the Crimea, with four
rooms lined up in a row, a veranda, a hall in front, a kitchen, the same one for guests
and workers, a small booth way in the depths of the orchard, a sad, small building for
the workers, and two half-ruined sheds for drying tobacco. Evidently the raising of
tobacco was the alpha and omega of all the households of the landowners of the
Bulganak plain at that time, and their plantations began in Kojash, also like in Agach-Eli,
directly from the steps of the house, which stood on a little hill, where later the orangery
was, and stretched along the whole length to the road. There also were vineyards,
planted during Numan’s time; there was a wine cellar, looking solid and sound
compared to the other buildings, which he built along the road, and a large, neglected
garden. Magnificent old walnut trees along the road of the whole property froze during
the terrible winter of 1879, and all of them died. There was also an old mill.
The most beautiful and precious thing about Kojash was its availability of water. I
already described previously that there were many different strata in our region. There
was a slight incline and the small rivers flowed towards Kojash on the right side; three
springs flowed: one flowed into Bodrak, one into Kojash along the road, and the third
Page 185 one a little lower than our old house, but still high enough so that the plumbing in the
new house always contained enough water from this spring. I do not know
who developed this spring, but it was done before Franz; the wonderfully cold, clean
water, flowing in a constant stream, was a never-ending gift from God in our water-less
places. Something totally unexpected in our bald, dry steppes was the disposition, on
the opposite side of the incline which was rather wide at that point, of the so-called
Grottos. Who and why somebody called them thus I cannot say, because there were
no grottos there at all. In that location some pointy cliffs came to the surface and, many,
many years ago, two rather large blocks developed, probably pushed up by
underground waters, and moved
mountain range.
2-3 sazhins (14-21 feet) away from the original
In that way a narrow corridor developed, all overgrown with bushes
and trees, among them several huge walnut trees which fell during the winter of ’79 and
blocked all entrances to any rays of the sun. On the tops of the original cliffs, bushes
and trees also grew and everything, together with the murmur of the underground water,
became a true oasis in the middle of the hot and empty steppe. This was such a point
of interest in our plain that even before the Schnaiders’ purchase our guests, as well as
Germans who generally were not interested in much, came from Bulganak on Sunday
excursions.
This comparative wealth of water and the far-flung plain of this area
provided ample opportunity for establishing a beautiful and good household in Kojash,
and this is what they hoped and planned foremost for their future young household.
They married on October 11, 1888. In whatever relationship they were (they were
related to the 7th degree) a special permit was needed according to the laws of the
Catholic church for their marriage, and the zealous and negative priest of the local
Roman Catholic (Polish, as we always said) church, Pater Aloisi Krinizky, found it
necessary to bring the matter all the way to Rome, from where, one half year after the
wedding, a special, belated permit arrived. A dispute about the location of the wedding
arose.
Krinizky was so disliked that many of his parishioners, among them Franz,
preferred to go to our church, where the kind Pater Zachary officiated. But he was
registered in Krinizky’s church who insisted that the wedding take place in his church.
On the other hand it would have been ridiculous if the daughter of a Nalbandov would
Page 186 not be married in the church which her grandfather had built. However, Krinizky was
the Dean, that is, he was in charge, and the decision was his to make. Finally this
dispute ended in a compromise: the wedding would take place in our church, but
Krinizky would perform the ceremony and would receive the fee. That was what all this
was about. After the wedding, the young couple went abroad for a long while. During
their absence, the turbulent relations between the two families, now even more closely
related, were permanently damaged.
Varvara Ivanovna had died 3-4 years before
Franz’ marriage. Franz Petrovich was about 60 years old. And suddenly he decided to
marry again. I already wrote that the Schnaider children loved and treasured their
mother very much. You can see how the appearance of a new wife in their mother’s
place, at that age, could not have been pleasant for them, especially since F.P.’s choice
was somebody nobody knew, Marija Adamovna, whose last name I never heard
mentioned - for some reason an American citizen, but a simple person, having some
sort of position – a companion or live-in worker – in the family of Lang, a carriage
maker, very religious, barely speaking Russian. For reasons strange to us, the Schlee
family did not find anything special in this undertaking of the old man, and listened to his
plans without objection or protest. The only person with whom F.P. would have had to
reckon – Franz – was absent, and the other two children only begged him not to take
that step, but he was only slightly interested in their request. The wedding was sped up,
and when Franz returned everything was already finished. Between Franz and his
father were very turbulent explanations, and their relationship was damaged for a long
time, and was totally and permanently suspended with our house. They were never in
our house and we were never in theirs, and we would meet only at Franz’. Marija
Adamovna turned out to be a very decent person, and because of her there never arose
any difficulties. She stayed in her circle and never even was in the young Schnaiders’
house at their holidays and receptions. F.P. left her a decent sum of money, and she
lived comfortably in the sphere of the church and its representatives.
Of course I can only sum up all that the young Schnaiders accomplished during the
years of working together, that is, the years 1888 to 1919. At first it was assumed that
Page 187 after the death of the father, Josef Franzovich would inherit Djav-djurek and therefore
an orchard was planted there, and in general renovations were done in preparation for
the self-sufficiency of both estates. At that time Franz made a very costly attempt to
bring artesian water to Djav-djurek. Even though the District Council already had a
hydrogeologist, at that time the middle steppe area of the Crimea had been researched
very little, and except for some unsuccessful digging in the Aibarach, no further
attempts for deep wells had been made. Unfortunately I do not remember how deep
the well was in Djav-djurek, but it must have been 170-190 sazhen (1190-1330 feet)
deep. It gave us its first water (probably from the same spring which fed the mountains
and cold storage in Kojash) but it was below the surface for 9 sazhen (63 feet). Further
digging showed much limestone but no water. The artesian wells would be viable only
for potable water.
It soon became apparent that Jozja had no interest whatsoever in Djav-djurek, nor
in any household at all, and from that time on Djav-djurek became an exclusively grainand animal-raising estate, and all of the owner’s interest was concentrated on Kojash.
The soil in Kojash was so much better than that in Agach-Eli, and better distributed, but
basically was not very suitable for field crop farming. The thin soil was very difficult to
cultivate, needed much strength during plowing, so that it was difficult to use fewer than
4 pairs of oxen (usually 2-3 pairs of oxen and one pair of horses in front in order to
speed up the oxen). The plow turned up huge clumps of shale which it was difficult to
break up, and which fell back down if they were not removed immediately. .........
.....
( Lengthy description of difficulty of planting, plowing, soil condition, watering, etc.
Left out of translation, OG)..........
I went through these difficulties together with Franz, and neither one of us had
sufficient knowledge of agriculture to overcome the problems; we looked for the advice
from agronomists, also young and basically learning together with us of the impossibility
to farm in our region. There was much to consider, and one could drown in the horror,
Page 188 but Franz did not give up, kept trying, kept searching. Much later, when I was chairman
of the Simferopol Regional Assembly, we decided to develop a regional experimental
field in Kojash. For our not very wealthy and elementary agricultural enterprise, this
would have been an impossible monetary outlay, but Franz took it upon himself to build
a house on the field, take care of the purchase of equipment, and all the Council would
have to pay would be the salary of an agronomist who would serve in the whole area of
our corner in the region. We chose a suitable plot of land which lay directly on the socalled upper road from Simferopol to Bulganak (about ½ versts, ca ½ mile) because we
understood that it is not sweet for a person to sit alone in the steppe.
Franz built a
good house, dug a well which unfortunately contained not much water, and with his
usual passion fulfilled all the requirements of the agronomist, which was not easy even
in his large household. But the experiment was not successful: the agronomist who had
been invited by the Council lasted one year, became unnerved and left, and at that time
my presidency of the Council began, and the whole matter withered, which of course
was not Franz’ fault. I have already written how much love, interest and money the
Schnaiders put into the dairy business. Even here Franz did not stop due to high
expenses. Of course he built all necessary buildings: cow sheds, cold storage for dairy
products, and built them again in a more modern design if something was no longer
suitable. Someone who truly knew animal husbandry, K.V. Dal, about whom I have
already written, came to Kojash regularly and actually helped greatly with his
instructions. And finally there was a very successful herd of 40 half-blooded Dutch
(Holstein) cows which gave an unusually high yield. I have already written that Franz
was not satisfied with obtaining only pure-bred bulls, but also ordered several pure-bred
cows. A meadow of alfalfa, situated to the left of the road in front of the exit to the
country estate proved very successful.
The location was very suitable, sunny and
receiving all the water which tumbled from the incline. Just at that time the Council
received three puds (108 lbs) of alfalfa seed which had been ordered from England and
sent by the Agricultural Council to be distributed to the populace. Neither then nor ever
again did any of us see such seeds – each cernel was large, and without any additions.
Our regional council gave one pud (36 lbs) to Franz with the provision that he would
Page 189 have to return – I now do not remember how many – puds of seeds to the council after
the harvest. The alfalfa grew miraculously and remained for a long time and greatly
helped to raise the milk-giving of the herd. But we still had to learn something. The first
attempt at harvesting the alfalfa had been made by the Schnaiders already a few years
earlier. And I remember the sad letter of my sister (at that time I still lived in Petersburg)
in which she wrote to me that six of the best cows of the herd gathered in the alfalfa
meadow, ate their fill and died, and nobody at that time yet knew of the simple method
against this misery which was later used without question in Anapa and in our estate by
the thirteen-year-old girl, our Katjusha.
Franz bred wonderful half-breed horses, primarily from English breeders, but
sometimes also bought work horses. He had a steady horse-mating station licensed by
the governmental horse breeding administration, and to him were brought all the horses
in the surrounding area except from those stations which had their own stallions. He
was never interested in breeding pure-bred horses since he considered this not to be an
agricultural business. But also here we only learned through a bitter experience that
one could not improve the breed of work horses beyond a certain point: horses with a
large amount of pure blood had such thin hooves that they did not tolerate our stony
ground, and to keep a whole stable full of work horses in horseshoes was, according to
the conditions of that time, very difficult. He also had an excellent pig breeding system.
He constantly bought new sires and given fattening food they developed into huge
animals; the lard was particularly fine, especially if the animals were fed corn.
Of
course this was not as tasty as true Ukrainian lard. In the fall Mother always received
six piglets for fattening up as a present from Kojash.
Chickens were kept by the
Schnaiders on the side of a near little hill which was covered with various trees.
Underneath was a huge platform surrounded by a fence. But of course the fence did
not guard the chickens well, and little by little it became clear that chickens as well as
eggs disappeared in large quantities. The whole enterprise had to be moved back and
new chicken coops had to be built, for which our Agach-Eli type of design for chicken
coops was used. The aquatic poultry was kept near the mill. Beekeeping was also
Page 190 quite successful in Kojash. The huge areas of greenery, flowers and water in Kojash
which were larger than those owned by all of us put together, were quite conducive for
keeping bees. The Schnaiders had a large apiary and a special person who took care
of it, and an observation beehive with windows so that one could observe the activities
of the bees. As was the usual manner of Franz, he had a large meadow in which
numerous gray rabbits lived, and at one point they were joined by numerous white and
brown ones, and this resulted in a mad mix of colors and the whole meadow being dug
up and criss-crossed with small mounds in which they lived and multiplied. But I cannot
remember ever eating rabbit at the Schnaiders. There never were sheep in Kojash. At
one time there were some so-called Spanish ones in Djav-djurek.
I do not know why
those animals suffered from pustules; the fight against this was not sustainable and
Franz liquidated the whole herd. But Franz kept a small herd of astrakhan sheep, which
he kept improving with new rams, in Djav-dzurek till the end.
I see that I made a great omission by not writing one word about Schnaiders’
relationship with their workers – the big question of our times. We were all far from
socialism, theoretically as well as practically. But the relationship with the workers,
permanent ones who lived in quarters with their families – and seasonal ones who were
hired for summer work, usually from May 15 till October (Pokrov), obviously was far
from the bloodsucking of which the estate owners were accused. Proof of this might be
the fact that the permanent workers lived with us for many years – you remember
Michel and Peter? The seasonal ones also came to work for us many years in a row
and brought their sons and daughters along. All this would of course not have been the
case if the workers had felt badly treated by us.
You probably remember our
accommodations for workers, you remember their food – how happy we would have
been during our first years in Munich, when you still lived with us, to have their food
from the “black kitchen”, the borscht and kasha and that black bread and galushki,
which you ate so gladly when we were still at home despite the fact that you were never
hungry there. When it came to monetary remuneration, then there were in the South,
where seasonal men and women mostly from the Poltava and other Southern regions of
Russia came to work during the summer, “collective” contracts, which were not written
Page 191 down but which were therefore not less conscientiously followed. If, for example, a
worker who worked during the winter stayed with you for summer work, the pay was
never based on some fixed sum, but one simply said: “I will stay till Pokrov for the
Kachavsky price,” or “10 rubles more than the Kachavsky price” if the worker was more
skilled than the average. Kachavsky which became so famous during the Civil War,
was a place for an autumn fair to which not only agricultural products were brought, but
where hundreds and thousands of workers looking for any summer work, also came.
Officially the fair opened May 9, the “day of the summer Nikolai”, but in fact it operated
already a few days earlier. Hundreds of land owners also came together there, as well
as managers from distant places of the Taversky region, that is, from all regions without
sufficient populations for a fair of their own. And in this way, nobody knows how, or with
what method, suddenly a “price” developed which then became the guide and was
used, without discussion, throught the whole, huge agricultural establishment of the
South. A whole series of factors determined the amount of this price: first of all the
condition of the winter crops which was already evident at that point, the number – by
eye, of course – of workers who had come to the fair, the number of employers, and so
forth – a whole row of not clearly defined but somehow captured moments. Some of the
employers left home on the 5th or 6th of May not knowing how many workers they would
need. These were the most critical days – will the much-desired rains come? For the
harvest he will need 20 workers – if it does not come, 2 will be sufficient. And the land
owner would command his people at home: if there is a good rain, send a telegram!
And if the rains came, and the telegrams came, the whole fair perked up. The “price”
jumped higher right away, many tens of thousands more rubles went into the pockets of
the workers, and the land owner happily and gladly paid them because he was certain
that his care and work would not be useless. And this was the Kachavsky price. Fall
came. The day of Pokrov came- a day for settling with the workers, and according to
custom, each worker, except the lackadaisical and unpleasant ones, received a small
reward in addition to his salary – 5-10%. At the Schnaiders this holiday was always
great.
At that time, when salaries were 40-50 rubles for a period, a good mower
received an award of 10-15 rubles, as I heard when I was present at the settlement.
Page 192 During the first years, when the Schnaiders lived in the village during the winter or until
late fall, my sister provided lessons for reading and writing for the workers of all ages in
the evening and on Sundays.
The glass corridor of the old house served as a
classroom. I remember how my sister enjoyed the success of Ivan Pivovar, a large and
very good mower. And in my memory he was more than a good student. Later, when
there already were many servants with families in Kojash, a school was established and
a permanent teacher was invited to come. Our Katja also attended this school when
she was six years old, in little high boots because of the dirt on the road between
Kojash and Chadijevka. The 15th of August – Ascention Day – was a holiday of the
Bachtshiserai Uspensky Monastery. And almost every year, at the end of this holiday,
Franz provided one or two – depending on the number of people who wished to go –
huge motor bikes that took them to church – all of Bachtshiserai showed a great interest
in those bikes which were unknown in the Crimea. During the hot season, Franz never
denied his transport services to people and the use of horses, and on Sunday mornings
they went for the whole day to swim in the sea, 20 versts (12.5 miles) away. And, you
will ask me, did all this foster a sense of gratitude, or, if not a feeling of love, or at least
acknowledgement? It is hard to say. At that time this question did not arise, because
all of us – and my sister more than any of us – were under the influence of the
Uspensky group and other populists, and all this was felt to be a debt, whose fulfillment
did not lead to an expectation of gratitude. Franz himself was more doubtful, but did all
these things due to his inborn goodness toward everyone. But the future showed that
no individual merit left a trace on the basic historic process for Franz, as for many other
persons, larger of smaller unreasonablenesses appeared: they set fire to one of his
huge stacks of hay, and then extinguished it and the remaining stacks with a feeling of
very little benevolence, and did not shy away from the gorgeous Kojash house, which
was burned down after we left, just like our much more modest Agach-Eli house. Last
year, in Munich, a former office clerk of my sister, Ivan Vasiljewich Berezhinsky, told me
that the house was burned down by Makhnovists, and that he was nearly killed when he
began to carry books from the library, but nevertheless nobody raised a voice and the
Russian uprising, truly senseless and merciless, equally did not show mercy to the bad
Page 193 as well as the good past.
Of course you remember the Kojash house? (See “Addendum”) It was a gorgeous
edifice, into which Franz, with youthful energy, put all his love toward the earth in
general, and toward Kojash in particular, and to his young wife. He also wanted to
prove that he could rise above the usual bourgeois wealth, to build something better
than anything else in the neighborhood and at the same time surround himself with
beauty, comfort and what was undoubtedly most important to him in life – he built for his
wife. For the design he invited a famous architect from Sevastopol, B.A. Rozhnov, who
chose the beautiful location for the house, a little lower than the old one, on a former
tobacco field but high enough above the road and the whole plain, that the house
seemed to stand on a hillock and was visible from afar, and from it opened a wide and
far view to all sides. It stood totally alone – all service buildings remained not far away;
along a road with tall poplars in each side you came to a circle – an open stone
courtyard. After a few steps inside a huge vestibule, you arrived at the dining room or,
dining hall, which definitely was the center and main jewel of the house. This was a
very large room, about 28 arshin (ca 47 feet) in length and 14 arshin (ca 24 feet) wide.
Six windows and one glass door led to a terrace of the same large size. Despite the
large number of windows, the dining room was somewhat dark, the sun never reached
it, but in the hot Crimean summers it was always cool. But the study and children’s
room next to the dining room were full of light and sun. Along the dining room was a
wide corridor with many doors, that is, the bedrooms, three rooms for guests, the billiard
room, the back and the exit doors, all opened into the corridor. From the entry rose a
staircase to the turret which was high above the house, and later was made into a
library, comfortable, beautiful, and removed from the noise in the house. And still the
most beautiful thing of the whole house was the terrace.
The view from it was
breathtaking, as much as it could be in our poor plain. According to the architect’s
drawing, the terrace was ringed by six ionic columns, and despite their thickness, they
did not spoil the picture which opened before them: it was so wide that you did not even
notice the columns, just as one does not notice the leaden soldered joints among the
glass sections of Gothic windows. The terrace reached far out from the house, and on
Page 194 its left side were wide stone stairs which led you to a narrow platform from which again
two stairs led you to another platform with a stone balustrade and then to the park and
the pool with little fountains. And from the top of the terrace, with one glance you could
see the whole picture, and behind it ran the road, and further, between the two strips of
the old Numan vineyard, the small road which led to the grotto and the orchard. The
grottos were approximately at the height of the house on the left incline, the orchard lay
lower and behind it one could see the tips of mountains, and to the right lay Chadijevka,
the Tatar village and far away one could see Agach-Eli.
I know that my brother-in-law built his house with enthusiasm. But it was probably
more than that. He discontinued all his other duties and spent his whole time with the
construction. The walls were built of wonderfully layered sandstone which he himself
extracted from the little hill across the house where the poultry house stood later, and
under which a spring flowed across the road. (By the way, during these extractions we
found a quarter of a deer, which I brought to the Moscow Geological Museum). For the
lime for the building he burned straw all winter long in Djhav-djurek and used a huge
supply of old straw which had uselessly lain moldering in old sheds. So that, God
forbid, there would be no holes in the walls, and that no mice could set up house in
them, a mixture of sand and lime was applied. In order that the lower rows of the
masonry were sufficiently supported and would meet accurately, the mason who was
able to make an opening between the stones of such width that the mixture would
spread within like a fountain, would receive a bonus. I think that in all of this there was
a bit of romanticism and phantasy in Franz’ soul, who probably thought that he was
building this mansion for his future dynasty, and that it should serve a whole row of
descendants. My poor, dear Franz, how maliciously Life played a joke on him, and for
how short a time the mansion existed. But I am also convinced that evem if the torching
of the walls of his house was not deliberate but accidental, the walls will fight their
destruction for a long time. Around the house was a gorgeous park. The Schnaiders
succeeded in finding a young, unpleasant and mean, but very good and knowledgeable
Page 195 gardener, a Czech, Matvey Ivanovich (I do not remember his last name) who turned out
to be an excellent gardener-designer. He fashioned the park for them, measuring 1.5 to
2 desjatin (4-5.5 acres) all around and planted it. He was not carried away (as I was
later) with filling up the park with plants which had not been tested in our difficult
conditions, but beautifully grouped ordinary shrubs and trees and attained excellent
results. The new plantings could be watered, and they grew wonderfully. Only the strip
between the house and the road which was filled mainly with fruit trees, with a long row
of chestnut trees on both sides of the middle, did not grow as well as the trees in the
park, and until the end did not catch up. We thought the reason for this lack of success
was that years ago Tatar women used to throw ashes from their huts onto this piece of
land, but nobody remembers when there were Tatar huts in that place. However, this
human activity almost forever influenced any growth of vegetation. I said that Matvey
Ivanovich did not experiment with acclimatizing. However, once he attempted it, or
perhaps it is the only one of which I am aware. He succeeded beautifully .... not for
long. On the ends of two circular stairs he planted trees: Pawlonia imperialis. This is a
Japanese plant with huge leaves; it grows very quickly and blooms in early spring with
dark-and light blue blossoms resembling candles with golden flecks. Each fall each
tree, branch by branch was wrapped in straw and each spring they were unwrapped.
Several mild winters passed, and one
spring all efforts were rewarded: the trees,
already tall, stood like two blue bouquets of unusual beauty. Unfortunately that spring I
was not home, and can judge this beauty only in my imagination; the care of the trees
lasted as long as their height permitted, but never again did they bloom so
magnificently, until the time came when they produced just a few blossoms. During one
of the coldest winters, not only the buds died, but also whole branches; the trees
themselves survived but lost all of their beauty and were attractive only due to their
huge leaves. The second success of Matvey Ivanovich proved to be of longer duration.
He did not only plant trees in the park, but also bushes, and you can imagine how much
happiness it brought to the hearts of my Schnaiders when one summer, ten or maybe
fifteen years after the founding of the park, a nightingale began to sing under the
windows of the house. A nightingale in the Crimea, and even in the dusty and dry
Page 196 Bulganak plain! This was such an unexpected, wonderful reward for all their hard work
that at first we did not believe that it was a nightingale, until
Northern specialists
confirmed it, and decided that this was a lost bird or one landing accidentally in the park.
But the next summer the nightingale returned and then there were two, then three in the
park. I do not know about later, - the Revolution came, and I do not know whether it
was more merciful to the nightingales than to the landowners, or when they torched the
house, did the birds die too, because they lived in the dense bushes right in front of the
bedroom of the owners.
There was no end to tending the park around the house. Little by little the plants and
trees grew and it was no longer necessary to obtain planting materials from distant
private nurseries, but one could easily get them sent by train from public woodlands in
the Tavrichesky and Shatyrovsky region. Fertilizer was put into huge pits from which
stones had been removed. And later on the work was put into new gardens to the right
and left of the grotto. It is not by chance that I speak of the garden last even though it
became after all the main business of Kojash and its owners. It was in that order that
the development of the Kojash household proceeded, historically and psychologically. It
must not be forgotten that Franz spent his practical education in agricultural matters
among German colonists, and with a graduate of the same circle – his cousin Nik. Petr.
Schnaider. I do not want to generalize about all Germans, but I can say with certainty
that a Russian-German colonist did not love and did not value trees and vegetation in
general. They were clever, able and knowledgeable farmers but you would look in vain
for a horticulturist among the German Crimean colonists. There were (and I consider
only large estates in the Crimea) Greeks – Aleksiano, Reveliati, Pachadji, Armenians –
Almundjs, Krym, Schishken, Tartars – Krymtaev, Topusaby and an unendinging number
of small horticulturists in Kar and Alm, Russians – Rud, Golovinskiy, Gan, but among
German names I only remember long-since Russified Dr. N.N. Betling and the brothers
Konradi. Not less in vain would you look among the many German colonies and even
more in the large and small German steppe estates with large, note-worthy orchards
and gardens. A few acacias, this tree of few needs, growing in any soil, and knowing
well the unpredictable Crimean early spring and its later characteristics, blooming last
Page 197 and with sharp thorns defending its branches against the appetites of cows and goats of
the steppe – usually standing along the front of the house, among them occasionally
some half-withered lilac bushes and, separating the house from the street, some sad
yellow or pink-violet mallows swaying in the wind, and on the ground some
undemanding iris (Iris germanica!). It is true that those were steppe colonies and farms,
where water was pumped from deep wells and it would seem strange to ask of these
hard-working people to spend such expensive water on watering those plants, but
still..... On the road from us to Saki it was necessary to drive past four trees, visible from
afar in the totally empty and open steppe. There were two huge, old apricot trees and
the other two were old acacias. These four trees and a well not far from them, where
we always led the horses to drink, were all that remained of a former Tatar village which
had been situated there, and which had so totally disappeared that it was only with
difficulty that one could discern the huts, close to where the embankment rose. But once the Tatars cared for those two apricot trees, and it was also not easy for them to
carry the water for watering them.
Our Bulganak contained the so-called public garden, and in the vineyard apricot and
plum trees grew here and there, but all the small home gardens were in one location,
and nobody had the intimate, personal, if you will, connection with plants, which is so
characteristic of the Tatars. Growing grain was a business, a large business, important
and therefore serious, the garden was an indulgence, an amusement, and timeconsuming. I think that Franz had that same feeling, which was subconscious and
involuntarily absorbed by him in his youth. It is amusing that the very first auctions of
the orchard in Agach-Eli, which I have already described, made a deep impression on
our German family. Of course they had often heard about the large sums which were
often paid for good orchards during fertile years. But all that was somewhere else in
Karasivk, in Alm, in old, famous gardens and under very favorable conditions. And
when suddenly a medium-sized, half-steppe garden which had been developed not that
long ago by “our Varvara and Sergei” was sold for 8 thousand rubles – it was something
totally new and unexpected. It had seemed to all as an almost useless endeavor, but
then digging around in the garden suddenly had brought a profit, impressive with its
Page 198 amount. Nobody gave a thought to whether the garden business was truly profitable,
was the income truly quite substantial, achieved after so many years of work and
expectations, and what were the chances to repeat the profit – all these questions were
submerged by the amount of the profit. I remember that even Matvei Matveevich totally ignorant of plant management and its economics, could not get over this and kept
saying: “no, 8 thousand for a garden!”
But when Franz began to believe in the orchard business and became interested in
it, as was his usual way, he threw himself into it. The location of the old Kojash garden
was such that only a small part could be irrigated from Bulganak. To the Schnaiders
that section seemed to be in very poor condition, and they began to improve and plant it
during the early years of their ownership.
But when all the areas which could be
watered were occupied, they began to wonder whether that irrigatable area could not be
enlarged artificially. The question arose about using the water of the springs in the
Grotto, which flowed into the river bed of the Bulganak, and it was decided to build a
plateau and develop a reservoir right by the Grotto. And that is how it was done, but
unfortunately without the input of a good technician, and therefore the retaining wall was
either poorly placed or badly built. When the new reservoir was filled, the wall began to
crack, water began to escape, and the reservoir could never be filled to the top. Franz
always planned to replace the supporting wall, but never executed the plan. At the
same time the grottos had been improved and widenend. During the search for water, a
deep cavern was dug quite far into the mountain, but no mountain spring was found,
and as before, the water oozed throughout the plains and only a thin stream exited from
the cavern.
During a stay in Moscow, Franz visited a polytechnical museum and
happened upon a display about fish development. Franz immediately ordered some
trout eggs from Petersburg, and after they hatched in his bathtub, he put them into the
upper pond under overhanging cliffs. In the lower pond he had carps and craw fish.
Now the water from the grottos began to exit much higher and one could therefore
use a long stretch of the left cliff which previously could not be irrigated, for a garden.
But in the middle of this stretch protruded a large cave of the mountain and impeded the
Page 199 flow of water. At that time the Schnaiders became very friendly with a mining engineer
A.V. Konradi about whom I have already written, who married to the oldest sister of
Maria Ferdinandovna Schlee,Varvara Ferdinandovna. Konradi served as the manager
of the Saks Enterprise of Balaov, and visited rather frequently from his orchard in Alm,
staying in Kojash overnight. I already wrote that this was a lively, smart and manyfaceted person, a great lover of gardens and himself a horticulturist. Konradi measured
the incline of the mountain, put down some markers, and one fall the whole area was
plowed, the rocks removed, the earth was dragged with wooden rakes
down and
sideways until there was a large even field through which the water flowed all over and
on which soon a new, young garden appeared. Now the orchard in Kojash occupied an
area of 30 desjatin (81 acres) and became a truly large business. Little by little my
sister also became pulled in, like my brother-in-law, who dedicated more and more time
and interest to it. But all the actual work – cutting, planting, etc were boring for the
impulsive Franz and were left to the gardeners;
the size of the gardens made it
necessary to find an excellent, positive gardener and his assistants. Franz was more
occupied with the financial aspects of the business and he, much more than the rest of
us, was busy with the thought of the most profitable yield. He experimented, sometimes
successfully, sometimes not, but always with an eye on the profitability of the garden;
he always searched for a good realization of his ideas, and also wanted to show that he
knew about good gardening operations. But he was not lucky, or he did not have true
commercial instincts and talents, and these experiments were very expensive for him,
and did not yield results. The Schnaiders made attempts to involve themselves also in
small garden cultures – the gardeners were available. They had a rather good orangery
and later sold chrysanthemums, grew asparagus, attempted champignons, but I think
that the commercial results of all these beginnings were quickly negative.
After Franz Petrovich’s death, Djav-Djurek became Franz’ property.- Iv. Franzovich
got the “Petersburg” restaurant-hotel,- but this became less and less interesting to the
owner, and its management was transferred into the hands of Erem Stepanovich
Slepokobylsky, a simple, knowledgeable and seemingly honest person who had begun
to work for Franz as a simple blacksmith. The business proceeded in a normal manner
Page 200 along the established procedures – by the way I must add that Franz instituted a very
good, however very difficult, rule: all of Djav-Djurek was divided into square quarters –
with a measuring instrument – I think 100 desjatins (270 acres) per quarter, - and
alternating planting and plowing became easy and correct – but Franz began to rent out
larger plots to farmers from the neighboring village Nikolajevsky.
Thus happily, even though busily, but brightly and rich began the life of the young
Schnaiders. But soon a dark spot which unfortunately followed them all their life long,
appeared. Coming back from their honeymoon in the spring of 1889, they stayed only a
few days in town, living in the “Petersburg” hotel, and left for the village: Spring
demanded the immediate presence of the landlord. My sister expected her first child in
the autumn. In August I left for high school, Serjezha for the university. I lived in the
home of Iv. Serg. And one morning a rumor was reported to me – my sister was
seriously ill. I went to the “Petersburg” hotel and found Fr. Petr. at his usual place in the
vestibule on a divan.
With his usual cold-bloodedness he answered my disturbed
question about Sonja, that the birth was slow, was not proceeding correctly and that
horses had been ordered to deliver some doctor or other. Then he yawned, stroked
himself on his bald head and added: she is unlikely to live. I could not forget this to the
end of his life and to the end of my life I will not forget the impression the words from
this idler made on my young soul: after all, he was speaking of my sister. I remember
that I cried all the way from the hotel to the house of Iv. S., and this was a long road, I
was already in the 6th (10th) grade and did not like to cry. When I arrived in Kojash on
the same morning, there truly was little hope. The child was born dead, and for a long
time my sister was between life and death. When she finally recovered, we all breathed
a sigh of relief and saw in this as one of the unfortunate occurances in life. But all of us
were wrong. There followed a long row of miscarriages; this lasted for many years.
This was a horrible time. Externally all seemed to be well. My sister kept her usual way
of living; she worked hard and seemed her normal self, but when a new pregnancy
occurred not only she and Franz but all people close to them trembled and awaited with
fear what would happen this time. And again there were premature births and danger
to the life and health of my sister. Whatever they tried, to whatever doctors they turned,
Page 201 nothing helped. Now, looking back, it seems unexplainable for what and for whom a
person had to undergo such physical and mental torments - whether there would or
would not be a child? But this is now, when we all had been made wiser by life and
saw, that sometimes Nature wisely prevents a child from being born. But then the wish
to have a child evidently triumphed over all the other considerations, and my sister
clearly was worn out by this horror, but it kept repeating itself over and over. For our
family Sonja of course was more dear than anything else, and we felt her torture and
the difficulty of her situation, and our relationship with Franz became more strained.
Finally, in the winter of 1893-4 my sister was placed into a Moscow clinic for sick
women, and Professor Snegirev operated on her. When we heard in the summer of ’95
that my sister was expecting a child, we held our breath again. The family Esperenyi
whose daughter had been at the boarding house in Odessa with my sister, was visiting
her that summer. At that time, Esperenyi who used to be a military physician, had
already died.
The family consisted of the widow Anna Aleksandrovna, the nicest
person, the daughter Lucy and son Stanislav Karlovich, who served in the Imperial
Hermitage. Beginning with the first months of her pregnancy, my sister watched every
one of her steps, and the kind Anna Aleksandrovna helped her endure this difficult
situation of sitting imprisoned, even if in the most beautiful Kojash house. As if she were
still with me, I see her sitting in an armchair on the terrace at the end of the day. It was
stuffy even on the large terrace, and she would descend a few steps in order to be
under the open sky. She always was full-figured and fought against this by eating
surprisingly little and moving about a great deal. But during that time she gained terribly
much weight, and together with her condition, she became somewhat obese. It was
terrible for us to see our sister in such a state, and she was very aware of this, and her
tender eyes asked for forgiveness and not to judge her harshly, and to understand all of
her difficulty and the hopelessness of her situation and to forgive her. The fourth month
passed and we all sighed a sigh of relief. From then on everything went normally, and
on December 24, ’95, Zhenja was born. What a celebration that was – how happy
Franz was – this cannot be described in any words.
For a long time, until this same Zhenja was an adult – no clouds dimmed the
Page 202 Schnaiders’ life. From early Spring until late Fall they lived in Kojash, and during the
early years sometimes they even wintered there, but with our terrible roads even the 20
versts (ca 20 kilometers) which separated us from town were treacherous and I
remember vividly one occasion when Mother left the house at 10 in the morning in our
light van and arrived in town at 5 in the afternoon, and the horses (a troika) were
covered with lather and literally swayed on their feet.
In the beginning the Schnaiders renovated for themselves the gorgeous apartment of
General Vzmetniv in the house which F.P. Sch. had bought, but which was somehow
unusual and awkward; actually one could say that F.P. who found the apartment quite
comfortable, foisted it on them. My memory tricked me here. Now I remember that
before that apartment, the Schnaiders lived for 2-3 years in the house of Zhashgozev on
the Aleks. Nevsky Street. It was a very good, comfortable small apartment where they
lived pleasantly. Soon the first tenant came – a tubercular medical student who was
sent to them by Serjezha, and who stayed with them a few weeks before being sent to
Yalta. He was laying in a clinic in Moscow and was to be sent to the South, but he had
neither money nor friends. The Schnaiders helped him to settle in Yalta during the
winter, the summer he spent with them in Kojash (still in the old house). He returned to
Moscow, finished the university and then until the end of his life he lived in Simferopol.
This was the surgeon of the Governmental Hospital –Dimitri Aleksandrovich
Blagovershchensky. With this example I want to show Schnaiders’ word “Help”.
Then they rented a truly wonderful apartment in the house of Vadazian, where they
lived until they bought a medium-sized house on the same Pushkinsky Street, which
had belonged to Schaur. The Schnaiders worked during the summer and rested during
the winter almost every year until there were children, in Petersburg or Moscow. Little
by little they became involved in the social life and work in Simferopol and soon
occupied noticeable and important positions.
I have already spoken about the
charitable works which was the private sphere of Franz. But he was also passionately
involved in what was called social activity and which was a necessary supplement to the
work of the governing bodies.
He was a member of the Simferopol Agricultural
Page 203 Assembly, member of the city Duma, a member of the council of its Extraordinary
Committee, member of the finance committee of the Asav-Donsky Bank and of a
department of the Federal Bank in Sevastopol, an advisory member of the creditgranting society, and everywhere gave his energy and fervor. I am not even speaking
of his charitable foundations and endeavors where, next to him, my sister was active.
They soon directed the newly re-activated efforts to help children in poverty. My sister
was the presiding person in this and put her whole soul into this endeavor. The means
for this were collected from everywhere; often people who owed something to Franz
paid him back, so to speak, by contributing to the Children’s Aid, but the major
contributions came from the Children’s Aid committee. Here Franz mobilized all his
energy; the accounts were done at home, and many days the tables were filled with
materials for the Children’s Aid. If there were not enough means to cover expenses, or
if a new roof was needed, or new heating was to be installed, Franz covered the deficit,
but he gave no peace to anyone when it came to the success of the Aid. And everyone
knew this and everyone felt the obligation to attend an evening of fundraising, to eat
well, to drink well, to pay much, but with the knowledge to be doing a good and useful
deed, with the certainty that not one kopek would stick to the hands and all money
would find its intended use. These evenings were characterized by their very special
democracy and, so to speak, internationality. Just as the Children’s Aid in its choice of
its small clients, Franz in his unhesitating wish to help however he could never
differentiated between Jews and Non-Jews, all nations of the town gathered at those
evenings, but usually still separating themselves according to their nationalities. During
other hand, at those evenings you might meet people who under different
circumstances would not even think to enter the local club or a concert or ball, and then
to stay there for dinner. Great was the attraction of the work itself and of its main agent
– Franz, and the confidence that one could not only go there but that one should, and
that one’s appearance there would not cause unpleasantness. And often some timid
attendees would turn out to be generous benefactors.
And indeed, the Society could soon build a hospital on a piece of land designated
for them by the city, not large but very well built, with 12 beds and various separate
Page 204 divisions. Besides this, the Aid Society had a children’s camp for children of school age
during the summer.
Officially, the camp was directed by the city government, but
.........The camp was located adjacent to Djav-Djzurek, which belonged to Franz, and it
was Franz who provided provisions, water and heat, and he gave horses and a
coachman in order to drive the camp’s children back and forth, and to take them back
and forth to the beach –I believe, every day.
For some reason, the urban properties interested Franz less.
They were huge
properties scattered about the best areas of town and brought in very large revenues.
These revenues, as much as they reached his hands, Franz uncontrollably put into
Kojash, but they were not sufficient, and he made debts; he never had enough time or
desire to take care of the properties, even to see how he could increase their
profitability. Franz Petrovich obtained a special contract with the town administration to
build several buildings and at the same time a row of store fronts along the Izmetney
house on the Pushkinsky Street. And this is how it remained. Only in 1913 did Franz
decide to utilize the huge area of the empty-standing site, and together we developed a
plan for building on it. But the war did not permit us to bring the matter to the end, and
only one three-story building bordering the Armenian-Catholic church and opposite, a
three-story house (only the frame) was completed; planned were: a movie-theater
Bayan, opposite a restaurant-hotel “Metropol” (a club house was completed only on
graphs, but had been worked out with all details). The new hotel was to offer full
amenities and comforts and Franz was collecting details for its furnishings with much
fervor during his foreign travels, which were quite frequent before the war and were
meant for the health of his wife and children, sometimes even during the summer.
Everyone came to the Schnaiders. I am not only speaking of the Simferopolites.
From his time of working at the “Petersburg” hotel he had many acquaintances in the
whole region who traveled to Simferopol.
The northern estate owners: Kovjanko,
Friedrich Falz-Fein who was so famous for his zoo, the Melitopol Rykovs, the large
estate owner Zacharov, Menonites with the dairy business – Wilm, Vibe, one of the best
animal breeders who owned that beautiful German breed about which I wrote,
Page 205 horticulturists from Karasav Selinov, Shishman, Agtundzji – all came to Simferool and
felt obliged to spend time with the hospitable and hearty Franz and his friendly but much
more reticent wife.
Simferopol, a young town, was still a former Tatar settlement,
known as Aqmescit, at the end of the 18th century and did not have an old established
aristocracy, had almost no nobility, and its “society” consisted of a “true mixture of
tribes.” The bureaucrats were mostly Russian, also the judiciary and military circles.
Everything else was diverse and did not at all flow together into some kind of society,
but was grouped into clubs. During balls and evenings in the city’s clubs and at the
theater one could see this diversity, but even there during dinner one saw the same
circles. The Schnaiders were loved and honored everywhere for their activities, but in
their private life they were close only to our extensive family. The rest of us, however,
were not at all that sociable, and all efforts of my sister to become a haven where
representatives of different backgrounds and clubs would get together, came to nothing.
All of us, considered people of means and materially independent, worked many hours
and often were not even available in the evening. My sister often liked to compare us to
the large family of the Rougon-Macquarts, which at that time was a popular series of
novels by Emile Zola. And truly, if one does not speak of the bureaucratic circles, then
our family had a very marked effect on local life. Four of us were in the locoal Duma:
Al.Mat., Franz, Uncle Fedja Lustich and I (not counting Cousin E.N. Nersesov); in the
estate-owners’ assembly sat three of us: Franz, Al.Matv, and I; the three of us also sat
in the Council of the Mutual Credit Bank; Franz and I were members of the inspecting
section of the Asav-Donskoy Bank; Al. Matv. was a member of the inspecting section of
the Petersburg M. Bank; F.O. Lustich was director of a department of the Russian
Mercantile Bank, R.F. Lerich was director of the City Bank. In each of the many high
schools one or the other of us was a member of the parents’ committee or the
pedagogic assembly, during the last years I was president of the Commercial Institute of
the Merchant Society. And all of these were unpaid volunteer activities, places entailing
much actual work, for which not one of us received any compensation but which we
accomplished with much effort and honesty. The budget and inspection committees of
the estates and the city met every week, and we attended without fail. It was not
Page 206 possible not to go to the pedagogic assembly, where sometimes the situation of an
unsuccessful student was decided, and a mother or father would come and ask that
help would be given him. And so it went constantly. Seldom were the days when we
did not meet for some work in the evening – during the day each one had his own –
sometimes even two times. And every Friday there was a regular meeting of the city
Duma and it was simply not permissible not to be there: all of us belonged to the voting
membership without whom there would not have been a quorum. In this way, we had
Saturday evenings free and Sundays.
And slowly we formed the habit of getting
together on Saturdays, most often at the Schnaiders – our four families. The four of us,
Ferd. Osip., Al. Matv., Franz and I, would sit down to play whist, our wives would scold
us for this, we would talk and then all of us would have a wonderful dinner and would
depart for our homes – until the next Saturday. Once, during one of these evenings,
which was not long before Franz’ death, having finished the card game, we went into
the dining room for dinner. Not a quarter of an hour had passed when there was a loud
crash: a huge mirror, about 3 arshin (84 inches) high, in a heavy wooden frame had
loosened from its nails and fell right onto the table standing under it, and on which we
just had played cards. The glass fell all over, of course, and the chair and the table
were ruined. If this had happened while we were still playing, certainly the person
sitting under the mirror would have suffered a broken skull or spine. For Franz, who
always was superstitious, this was a very heavy blow: he turned a dull white. We tried
to joke, but everyone was not quite himself. In this case, superstition turned out to be
wholly correct, but I am telling you this not in order to strengthen this phantom. I was, it
seems to me, never superstitious but this fact, as you can see, strongly stayed with me.
This is probably how all superstitions take root. Someone will say something, and
people will go and seek facts, not worse than I myself!
None of us could stand going to the club, even though all of us were members. Here
we were among family, could speak comfortably, not fearing any gossip and finally –
this was not the least of it – could eat and drink splendidly, and the lady of the house
always tried to provide something special to set her Saturday apart, and was obviously
glad when her spoiled guests remarked about her efforts and success. But it was
Page 207 difficult to compete with the Schnaiders. My sister always was an indifferent cook, ate
very little herself and never drank anything, and therefore handed her household over to
her maid Lela, who served her for many years and died at their house soon after Franz’
death. For this reason, Franz was all the more in charge of everything. He went to the
bazaar nearly every day early in the morning and bought everything that looked good
and in such quantities that he often brought us something on his way home.
All
merchants knew his tastes and when they obtained something special – some salted
fish, a grouse, oysters – they would let him know right away – and we would also be
partaking of his purchases.
Sometimes, when his purchases were particularly
expensive, my sister and I held him to account. “What do you want – should I leave
everything to my cousins?” was his usual answer and in this was also the thought that
he did not and would not have a direct heir in his businesses. And in the evening he
would ceremoniously host all uf us, feed us happily and well, and enjoy seeing the
pleasure we experienced from the food and drink. He probably was a poor German in
this regard also. Dear Franz. He was somewhat restless, liked to buy in the German
manner – everything wholesale because it was cheaper –and that there would be a
reserve at home.
He bought rice by the sacks, boxes of oranges, matches and
mountains of tea. But then, quite unlike Germans, he forgot his purchases, or gave
them away right and left, and gave them to his close ones and distant ones as a gift or
hosted them so generously. How many acquaintances and friends left him with some of
his tea in their pockets from the cabinet by the door! How many times did he come to
us in the morning to drink a glass of tea and bring some cheese, fish, radish and
whatever else he came across and which would “bring pleasure to us or the children.”
And when Andre fell seriously ill with a stomach ailment, and he was facing death, he
sent whipped cream from the village every day, by horseback. And when Katja was
very ill, he came every evening to visit her, and, seeing our concern, would take a pillow
from the divan, put it on the floor of the dining room and lay there all night because:
“one might need him to go to the pharmacy, or to get the doctor, or to get some ice”.
Dear, true friend. Never, never will we forget you nor your true, heartfelt love for us.
I have to reiterate, if only shortly, the political opinions and outlooks of my sister and
Page 208 brother-in law. They were typical and this was explained, as held true for many, many
of its followers, at being comfortable with the Cadet party’s cultured and compromising
middle-class behavior. But already at the very beginning of his political life he once,
one may say, stepped into the foreground and got badly burned.
His new Cadet
friends, especially Count Obolensky, as he himself told me later during the emigration,
led him into this.
This was in 1905.
All leftist groups wanted to organize a huge
gathering, but they could never find a legal reason for this. Then they remembered that
there existed a semi-secret organization or society in Simferopol, not active for a long
time, and expressed the desire to resurrect its activities, having established an
organizational meeting for this. In order to obtain the necessary permission for this from
the governor, they convinced Franz to be the chair of this meeting. At that time the
governor was Vladimir Fedorovich Trepov, a member of a famous family of Trepovs,
who during the time of my service in Moscow was Home Secretary General of
Department of State, a totally cultured and well-meaning person. He also knew Franz
and my sister as completely loyal and probably decided ‘why not permit a gathering
concerning agricultural matters under the chairmanship of one of the richest
landowners?’ But the matter turned out to be different. Not only not knowing about the
true aims of the gathering and completely inexperienced in this matter, the chairman
called the meeting in session, and a picture developed which at that time we all knew
very well, and which was very reminiscent of a ball to benefit nannies, which with such
foresight Dostoyevsky described in “The Demon” and as Count Obolensky described
this “meeting”: “ with a table we pushed the poor chairman Schnaider to the wall, so that
he could not leave, and then, not paying any attention to his protests and declaration
that the meeting was closed,
one after another jumped up on the table and said
whatever he wanted, and as long as he wanted.” In this way the new friends “played”
my poor Franz, and it cost him much trouble and unpleasantness to convince Trepov
that he himself was a victim, and was not the organizer of this unworthy comedy.
During the revolution of course worse things were done, but truly one becomes
despondent when one remembers how one and the same Count Obolensky borrowed
money from “Franchik”, and of the thievery within the party, and the dirty deeds done
Page 209 behind Franz’ back.
And after his death, in the obituary of the party he is called
“Franchik,” and fun is made of his “helplessness” in the feuilleton. How well the Count
benefited from all sides!
After this experience for a long time Franz did not even want to hear about taking
any steps which possibly might have a political character, and when I wrote my open
letter to the landowners of the Tavrichesky region, even though he and my sister were
in complete agreement with its content, he decided not to sign it, and I had to take my
first step in the Crimea without his participation – he still did not believe in the battle
which I had begun and did not want to risk getting into a ridiculous situation again. But
later all this changed. The Schnaiders did not leave the Cadet party, but in actuality we
became close and inseparable in our common political battle and remained so until the
end. During 12 years of our joint social work there was not a single instant when we
had a different aim for anything concerning our labors, and this was not because we
were related or because of our friendship but only because we tried to approach each
situation honestly and without bias. If this is approached honestly, there are no bases
for disunity. We had this in extreme measure, and together we rose in the landowner
society and town.
After Zhenja, the Schnaiders had two more daughters: May 2, 1897 Elena and
January 4, 1901 Marianna (Musja). Zhenja grew up as a totally normal child, a little
slow and stout, learned easily and well, and finished high school with a medal. Her
inclination to stoutness hindered her to ride well on a horse, and though Franz always
hoped to have a son,
but because of Zhenja’s interest in housekeeping, her
unquestioned ability and agility, we thought that it would be Zhenja who would continue
his beloved work. The Schnaiders loved and spoiled their children, and “the Schnaider
children” were always the objects of envy of all the other children of our family; not only
did Zhenja have everything she wanted, but even more than what she could wish for.
Perhaps it was due to this that she did not much appreciate all the care and love
surrounding her, but I think this was the main reason. As time passed, she began to
resemble Anna Franzovna more and more, with her complete disinterest in the external
Page 210 world, and I would say, with a dogmatic rejection of it. More and more her eyes began
to have that dark forbidding look which always amazed me unpleasantly and inhibited
me during conversations with Anna: she looked at you and listened to you, but at the
same time looked for something inside you as if examing the sincerity of what you were
saying, or perhaps she was hearing and seeing her own thoughts. It was becoming
clear to us that Zhenja’s interests were wandering somewhere else, and that she would
not be a replacement for Franz; she was not talking to anybody and only kept reading,
reading. After finishing high school, she went to Petersburg for some courses, but did
not stay long. She fell in with some political group and was arrested, and Schnaiders
succeeded in freeing her from the arrest and further persecution only after much
trouble; she returned to Simferopol even more of a stranger, and after a short while told
her mother that she had become the wife of Zachar – whose last name I never did find
out. This Zachar was a cabinet maker, if I am not mistaken, for our master cabinet
maker Petrov, was a totally uneducated person, a member of the Socialist party – I do
not know of which one – and at one time even had been abroad. He lived with his
mother in a small one-room apartment with a kitchen in a Gypsy settlement and this is
where Zhenja moved. You can understand what a blow this was, not only for the
parents, but for all of us. The issue was not the affront to the pride of our family.
Zhenja’s choice was a negation of all of our way of life, it was an entry into an alien
enemy camp which hated and despised us. All of us were cultured enough to recognize
and acknowledge the convictions of others, and if Zhenja’s choice would have been the
most left socialist, then none of us would have thought to judge her for this (even though
we of course would not have been happy about such a marriage) if this socialist would
have been a cultured person. But this person was the most common one among the
cabinet makers, evidently worked over by the party and just that one Zhenja picked,
having not said a word even to her mother, not even making an attempt to see whether
the parents would agree to her normal marriage with her chosen one.
The poor
Schnaiders were simply heart-broken, especially Franz. But, still, he loved his daughter
and felt within himself the desire to grant her wish even in this instance, or else he
understood, being an intelligent person, how Zhenja’s legendary stubbornness harmed
Page 211 the family, and to our astonishment there was no explosion from his side, and after a
talk with them, he offered Zhenja and Zachar to leave Simferopol and promised a
monthly stipend of enough money to live on. This was a rare, perhaps the only case in
the long years of our friendship when the Schnaiders did not seek my advice. Of course
they were right – they knew me and understood that in this deal I would have been a
poor advisor, and not understanding Zhenja, they would not have obtained sympathy for
her from me. And my sister with her soft heart tried to find a conciliatory solution. The
absence did not last long, however; they returned to Simferopol and moved into the
Gypsy settlement. How all this would have ended I cannot say, the Revolution came
and turned everything around radically.
Elja was born a weak, sickly child, began to walk very late and never had good legs,
and in addition, incurably poor eyes. This was a kind and naturally good person, but of
course not very suited to life and she remained so to her last day. Life was particularly
difficult for her as well as for her mother, and for all of those around her, during the
emigration. She died December 8, 1945 from influenza at Musja’s in Belgrade.
Since birth Musja also had bad eyes which did not improve with treatments or with
glasses, but otherwise she reminded everyone of her father with her energy and agility,
her expansiveness and tendency for quick decisions, and her deep love for Kojash and
finally, her selfless love for her mother. What she went through during the emigration
and is still experiencing, if she and her mother are still alive, I will not undertake to
describe. I only think that all her sins and shortcomings must be forgiven because of
her true love for her mother. In September of 1920 she married the Colonel of the
General Staff Lev Stepanovich Tugan-Baranovsky. On May 26, 1923 a son, Georgy
was born to them. L.S. Tugan-Baranovsky died after a long illness on Nov.14, 1955 in
Trieste. (Their son, Georgy, married Inna Kartasheva and together with his wife went to
America on Nov. 28, 1955.)
On January 1, 1918 all of us relatives and many close acquaintances assembled –
for the last time – in the hospitable Schnaider house for the New Year dinner which
already had become a tradition, to meet the New Year with them. Franz had never
Page 212 been an orator at the dinner table, but there he suddenly spoke of dangers surrounding
us from everywhere, about the lack of any help whatever, that we all needed to unite in
order to save our land, and if necessary, to die. His agitation deepened, he breathed
with difficulty, and, already only speaking in broken phrases, he concluded: “we will all
go, nobody must bow down and give way .. whoever gives way, let him know that we all
will step away from him....and if it is fated for one of us to perish in this battle, we will all
accompany him in his coffin ...” Who among us could know at that minute that he spoke
of himself, the only one of us who perished when our enemies came. Two weeks later,
his coffin stood in that same room where we had dined, and not one of us could
approach his coffin or accompany his remains to the cemetery.....
Besides our common guilt of being bourgeois and landowners before the Revolution,
Franz and I had another special fault: we both were members of the League of Defense
of the town, I was its chairman, and Franz an appointee.
Evidently this caused a
special interest in us from the powers that ruled Simferopol on January 14, and both of
us were arrested that evening. Several groups came to Franz that evening. He was
able to telephone me about one group which came – sailors – they did not search him
and were totally decent. One group, evidently more official, demanded that he hand
over the League’s money. My brother-in-law answered that the money was in the bank,
and that tomorrow he would go to the bank with them and would give them everything
which, according to the books, belonged to the League. They were satisfied with this
and left. But still another group came and demanded that he go with them. They led
him to the corner of Pushkinskaya Street and the dark Gymnastichsky corner and there
killed him on the sidewalk by the small annex of the “Petersburg” hotel. Of course we
never found out who belonged to that group, whether they had a connection to the new
rulers. But the physical assassin was a farmer from the Nikolajevsky village, close to
Djav-Djurek, Konokrad, whom the Regional Court had sentenced to exile in Siberia,
and Franz had had the misfortune to be the jury foreman in this case.
About this village – the only Russian one in our region at that time, more must be
said in detail. (Zburjevka was a fellowship and originated in 1906-07; at the same time
Page 213 the village of Adji-Ibrash came into being). In all of the Crimea there were only 3-4
Russian villages, developed in a so-called typically Russian manner, that is, the settling
of Russian farmer-serfs on the land of an estate owner. There were the Sablovs on the
land of the Dekabrist Davydov, Kurzs and Zus on the land of General Vzlitnev. All of
them were serfs of the owner who were resettled from their Russian estates into the
areas which the Tatars had vacated. Of course it was not the best serfs who were
resettled, but the less able and pleasant ones. In the Crimea it used to be said that
these villages were settled with the lowest elements. One hundred years passed and
all this was forgotten, but their descendants kept some of the characteristics and were
the ‘restless and quarrelsome’ part of our peoples.
They also did not care about
expressing these characteristics in all of their relationships. Besides having a decent
amount of land, they also worked in the forest and wood delivery service and their
specialty was in shipping fruit, as I have described before. In this way they lived well,
and they never showed signs of that beaten-down and humble demeanor so common in
Russian farmers. But still.... When there was a Jewish pogrom in Simferopol in 1905,
undoubtedly instigated by what was then called ‘the black net’, the Sablovs were invited
to take part in it and in the looting of Jewish stores. But let us assume that this was
some peculiar patriotism of a true Russian populace, an anger toward foreigners in the
Crimea.
And then, I believe in 1913, the old woman Davydova (born a Countess
Trubetskoy, daughter of a Dekabrist who married N.V. Davydov) won 200 thousand
rubles. A rich land owner, still harboring old ideals, she did not know what to do with
this money, and decided to use it for the benefit of former serfs, among whom no one
who still knew the former rulers, was left. One must add that the old Davydovs (they
must have been around 70 at that time) were the nicest people, somewhat removed
from life, far from oppressing Sablovs; they lived on the estate only during the summer
and long ago gave the management of the estate to their daughter-in-law, O.A.
Davydova. The old Davydova decided to build a new church in Sablov, a new school
and a new hospital, to leave capital for their furnishing and made and agreement with
the City Council for the upkeep of these structures.
received a great gift without any cost to them.
In this manner, the farmers
And what happened?
The new
Page 214 structures had not yet been quite completed when the Revolution came.
The first
decree of the Sablovs was: evict the Davydovs. The Nikolaevskys had never been
serfs, but their whole life long they somehow looked like warriors. Their quite adequate
space bordered on Djav-Djurek. Nikolaevsk lay right on the edge of the sea, it had
precipices and a rather high beach from which they never managed to build a decent
descent to the sea, but with such beautiful sand that during the summer the less well-todo families from Simferopol gladly came here, and there would have been many more
of them if the Nikolaevskys had thought to make a stay there more pleasant. I am
writing all this only in order to show that it was not a God-forsaken, forgotten,
impoverished village.
The relationship between Franz and the Nikolaevskys was a
long-standing one, and one might say, not a well-meaning one. It seems to me that
even before his marriage, when Franz was living in Djav-Djurek, he facilitated the
building of a school in Nikolaevsky through the regional council. But since Nikolaevsk
was in an area far from Simferopol and in a region of a population with a different
religion, Franz insisted on the addition of a special hall to the usual design of a school;
this hall was supposed to serve as a small church, so that the citizens of Nikolaevsk
would have a place to bring a priest a few times a year and would have church services
a few times a year. During those times this was still possible and Franz had a large
monetary part in the building of the hall and the building of the whole school, and was a
beneficiary-for-life of this and always helped out the school and its teacher. A small
detail: during the building of the school a student of the Agricultural Academy, Chuikov,
worked for Franz in Djav-Djurek. His sister, Elizaveta Alexeevna Chuikov, came for a
visit. She was a typical young lady of those times, wanting to work for the people. She
became a teacher in Nikolaevsk and remained there for several years. This was in
1888. And so, after 20 years when I was president of the Simferopol Regional Council,
I offered her, who was by that time a senior teacher of the region, to move to a school
which was closer to Simferopol. She was already a mature person, but still filled with
her youthful idealsm, we all dealt with great respect with her and her achievements, and
I thought that as one gets older it is not easy to sit so solitary and cut off from
everything. But E.A. declined, saying that she was used to Nikolaevsk and I never
Page 215 heard that she left that service in the region and it is likely that she also stayed there in
the 20’s. And you can see: in Nikolaevsk there never were serfs, there were more than
sufficient parcels of land, there were good businesses (a fish store, goose breeding), it
had a school which was the best in the region and a teacher who stayed for many
years, an educated person who without a doubt only taught ‘smart, good, eternal
things’, but the Nikolaevskys were like wolves and – I am deeply convinced of this –
harbored in their souls the only thought of how to divide, and even ‘without
recompense’, the land of the ‘trustee of the school’. It is right to think about this. And
for the murder of Franz there also appeared a Nikolaevsky person! After the murder,
the murderer settled in Nikolaevsk. We could not return to our estates until the summer
of 1918. During that summer several young officers, either wounded or separated from
their units, lived in my sister’s house in Kojash. P.N. Schnaider, having somehow or
other found out that the person responsible for Franz’s death lived in his own house,
convinced several of the officers to try and arrest him, and without my sister’s
knowledge, the young officers got on their horses one night and rode to Nikolaevsk.
There they surrounded the hut and a young officer, whose name I have unfortunately
forgotten, went straight up to the entrance door. A shot rang out and the young man,
wounded in the stomach, fell and with his body blocked the door. Since the door was
still open, anyone who approached the wounded man would have experienced the
same fate, and so the poor man lay there until dawn. Later he was taken into town, and
he died after several days.
But the one whom they had wanted to arrest jumped
through a window still in the dark and escaped. Later it was said that he was killed on
the Red Front, but this could have been just a rumor which he himself put out for his
own protection.
In this way our poor Franz perished, a victim of troubled times and personal revenge.
Whether he deserved such a death – let those who read this description of his life,
decide.
The following day his corpse was given to his family for burial. A delegation of the
new government came to my sister and announced that the murder of my brother-in-law
Page 216 occurred without any participation whatsoever of their group and was a tragic
misunderstanding, and expressed its sympathy to the family. But it demanded that the
burial would take place in complete silence. The body was taken to the cemetery and
put into a crypt under the cemetery church, and only in June, when Simferopol was
occupied by German troops was it moved and buried in the crypt built for my father. We
only had time to surround the grave with a temporary fence, and in order to get to it, we
took away a part of the fence surrounding my father’s grave. We placed a tall simple
oak cross on the grave. This cross was made in the workshop of N.I. Chernetenko. For
many years F. Ja. Petrov had worked for our family as a furniture- and cabinet maker.
This was a sly but very clever and able worker, who had worked himself up from a
simple labore to a cabinet maker and got the best jobs in our town. He not only got
work from Franz all the time, but also assistance during difficult financial times in his life.
It was obvious that my sister would turn to him about the cross, since Chernetenko had
not worked for us for a long time. But Petrov refused. This was of course a distressing
small matter, and expecially for me. I always had good relations with P. and truly
thought him to be a decent person, even though a sly one. What was the matter? His
relationship with Franz was good until the end. Was Petrov really too afraid to fashion a
cross for a “bourgeois”? This fear was too great to overcome the feeling of gratitude
which P. must have had for Franz? Afterwards P. naturally avoided meeting me and
this question has remained unresolved for me.
The burial was during a clear summer day. For the funeral service in the church,
the German commander sent a military orchestra, I do not know on whose initiative, and
it was unusual and undoubtedly festive, to hear it under the dome of our church. And
there were many people in the church and at the cemetery. Glass was built into the lid
of the zinc coffin and we could look at our Franz one more time. His face had not
changed at all and was peaceful, and only on one cheek was a dark trace of a stab with
something sharp.
With the death of Franz, Sonja’s life also practically ended, even though she is still
alive even now. This does not mean at all that they were so close that they could not
Page 217 exist without each other, or that my sister was a person who could not live
independently. She remained the same kind, smart and good person she had always
been, and all she had lived through did not lessen her regard for people’s misery, just
the opposite, she became even more kind to strangers’ grief, continued her work in the
Children’s Aid Society, took part in charity organizations springing up in Simferopol (like
a Cup of Tea, etc). to help the wounded soldiers of the volunteer army, and managed
the estate and the town houses - but all this was not the same. Perhaps under normal
circumstances she would have found her former interests again, and would have
followed further along that path which she had gone with Franz for thirty years, but
these circumstances did not develop. Franz, with uncanny premonition, and overcoming
his usual dislike of bureaucratic matters, made a list of all his fiscal businesses shortly
before his death. This way no difficulties whatsoever arose after his death. In DjavDjurek Eremiy Stepanovich managed as he had before, and Vasiliy Adamovich (I do not
remember his last name) who had been gardener in Kojash and who over time had
become a friend of the family, took care there. Of course Zhenja could have provided
much spiritual as well as practical help, but she had removed herself so far from the
family that one could not even think of it. (During the evening of Franz’ murder we met
among the crowd standing on the stairs of the “Petersburg” hotel, in front of number 22,
where the young Schnaiders had once lived when they returned from abroad, but
where now the Revolutionary Tribunal was in session. Later I found out that she walked
behind Franz during his abduction from the house, knew that he had been killed and
had heard his cries. But she told me nothing about that – she later said that she thought
that I would also be killed then, and did not want to depress me – and spoke only about
her husband’s arrest and that she came to bail him out).
She saved him. In March of
the year 1919 she and her husband also decided to leave, and boarded the ship “Rion”
in Sevastopol. But before “Rion” set sail, a large bomb exploded on it and I do not know
why this had such an effect on Zachar, but he was taken off the ship onto the beach
where he died of a heart attack. Zhenja brought the corpse to Simferopol and as I was
told later, a huge and very ceremonial burial was given to the Socialist Zachar, and the
coffin was put into Franz’s crypt. When I returned from Anapa, I went to visit Zhenja
Page 218 and found her in a bread warehouse, where the Union of Household Helpers was
located, which Zhenja administered. I found her surrounded by a group of women; she
was explaining something to each of them and I only heard her voice: “you think,
Comrade Ivanova, if you want, Comrade Petrova....”
Zhenja informed me that she
already was building a crypt for the corpse of her husband, and I only asked her to
complete the transfer before my sister’s return.
When I was already in Munich I
received a letter from Zhenja in which she informed me that she married again, a Kibler,
a German colonist, already has a child and lives with her husband in Chibinogorsk, in
Kareli, where they had been sent. She wrote about her husband warmly, but I was very
surprised by one phrase: “he somewhat resembles you’’. What was the meaning of
this? I truly had thought that in Zhenja’s eyes I came to represent all the sins of the
bourgeois estate-owner circle from which she so severely had distanced herself, and
suddenly there was something in common between me and her chosen man! I did not
hear anything else from her and sent the letter to Sonja.
Unexpectedly quickly, however, Musja matured and developed, and this young girl
began to go to committees and offices where we could not always show ourselves, and
where we were in the eyes of the new rulers, depraved people. And my sister did not
have much time to get used to live alone. In March 1919 we all went to Anapa, and
from there she and the children, and also Mama, returned only during the summer. On
November 1, 1920 all of us together left on the ship “Lazarev” to Constantinopol. There
the plague broke out on the ship and my sister and Elja spent two weeks in quarantine
and endured disinfection. When they finally got to shore, we saw each other only
seldom, that is, lived far from each other, and I moved only with difficulty in the sticky
and slippery dirt of Constantinopol. I made efforts to move to France for us and my
sister and her family. Finally a visa came telegraphically, but only for us, the German
name of my sister evidently prevented hers. On December 23 (standard time) we,
evidently for the last time, said good-bye to my sister and went to France. There I
continued to make efforts on behalf of my sister, but unsuccessfully.
Soon she,
together with Elja and the Tugan Baranovskys moved to Belgrade, where they spent the
next 24 years. This was not a life but a state of vegetation. At first they attempted to get
Page 219 settled somehow while my sister still had some valuables; they began to sell them, but
the family selling in a tiny store was somehow incompatible, and of course the business
ended in a crash and the loss of the last pennies. We tried to help my sister and found
a sanatorium
- a shelter run by Catholic Sisters -
for Elja which would keep her
permanently, but my sister could not decide to separate from her and declined. We
called Sonja and Elja to come to us, but Yura was born and permanently bound Sonja
to stay there.
L.S. had work, and according to rumors, relatively well paid by the
standards of that time, and later Musja also began to work by selling lottery tickets and
so forth. So they lived until a new misery developed. About eight years ago my sister
had a stroke, and since then her left arm and leg almost do not function, and she cannot
move without help. From that moment on my sister’s life became a torture from which
only death would be a welcome release. She herself wrote this to me and only worried
what would become of Elja. This she wrote to me in her last letter and said good-bye to
us and said that they would stay in Belgrade. My last letter of September 29, 1944 was
returned to me. On October 8 I received a letter from someone I did not know, a Sergei
Boldyrev: “I am writing to you on behest of Sofia Sergeevna and the T.-B. Three days
ago I came to Germany from Belgrade, where I lived in the same courtyard with T.-B.
They asked me to write to you that they stayed in Belgrade and did not go to Germany,
since a move would be very troublesome for the sick S.S. – she cannot walk at all, and
only lies or sits in bed. At this time they all are without work. Only Yura is working. I
feel sorry most of all for Sofia Sergeevna. She is a total invalid, but endures everything
stoically without complaining about her fate. All her neighbors admired her very much
because of this.”
This complete stranger correctly understood the basic character of my sister. At any
moment she was ready to listen to a stranger’s sorrow, and never burdened anybody
with her own. And by the way, despite the apparent glitter of the first half of her life, it
had contained more than a few bitter moments, and its end represented a true tragedy.
There is no doubt that she felt them deeply and bitterly, beginning with the time when
she, due to some unavoidable will of fate turned from a highly gifted person who was full
of the desire to think and work, into some sort of queen bee from whom only one thing
Page 220 was wanted – a child. Later, when these so much desired children began to be born,
but were weak and sickly, the blow which Zhenja inflicted on her parents, and finally the
horrible, undeserved death of Franz, the loss of everything, and especially having to live
off the income of her son-in-law, all this she had to overcome, and she overcame it
uncomplainingly. Even to the people closest to her – and for her I was one of them –
she did not complain, and only her eyes spoke of what was in her soul. During 24 years
of poverty and humiliation she could not write of any happiness or success even once.
And in almost all of her letters she poignantly apologized that she could only write sad
letters. Of the past she seldom wrote in her letters. I remember when Yura still was a
little boy and it was absolutely necessary for him to have a rest in a village, she wrote to
me: “how curious that at one time I could provide a summer’s rest for so many children,
and now there is no place for my only grandchild.” And that was all. Only during the
last years and months she wrote to me that it was unendingly agonizing for her to feel
how she hinders Musja and her family through her illness, and that she would prefer to
die soon.
She loved very much and often sang the aria by Tchaikovsky:
“Not one word, oh my friend, not one sigh!
We will be silent together
Because silently over the stone, because over the gravestone
The willows bend sadly.”
She died on January 14, 1945, “evidently from the heart”, Musja writes to me
(Feb.8,’50). “She was not feeling well toward morning, and she died at 11:30 at night. I
think that she understood that she was dying, but felt sorry for me and therefore did not
speak of it; till the last minute she stroked my head and her hand fell from my head only
when her breathing stopped...”
Page 221 I am very distressed by the thought that I did not do enough to save my sister. But I
wrote letters to her, I wrote to Musja, offered assistance and sent money for a move. I
am copying here my last letter from Musja: ‘24. VII. ’44. My dear Vovik. Forgive me for
not answering your letter for such a long time. But it is so difficult to write what one is
thinking, when one is not thinking at all and one is not thinking at all because there are
no data on the basis of which one would be able to think. We moved here (to a village
near Belgrade) because when the bombardments started, life became so much more
difficult, because it is so difficult for Mama to constantly descend to the basement, and
there is no good basement near us, it is impossible to walk far with her, it of course
never occurs to me to leave her, and because of this we had constant dramas, that is,
Yura said to me: “I will not go without you”, but together with that reprimanded me,
because we live in such a place. We are sitting here because Yura is working, and it is
impossible to travel further, that is, I and Lev are already unemployed, and beside that
we are stuck here because of the food coupons. I think that we will return one day soon
(they returned October 1, Boldyrev wrote), that is, because in winter it is impossible to
live here. What will be then, it is difficult to say, because so little depends on us.
Somewhere deep inside, and perhaps it is stupid of me, it seems that perhaps
everything will end well, and we all will see each other again and we will talk, and
together we will complain about our fate which has so cruelly separated us and gave us
only the hope to return home, and we did not live but always postponed life until that
time when our hope would be fulfilled, and we did not notice how life passed. Dear
Vovik, do not be angry that I am writing to you and that again there is nothing clear in
our plans, but if you would only know how difficult it is to decide anything within the
possibilities we have, since only Yura is able to work, I can only work half-time, and all
the others cannot. Lev is already 63 years old, and that already is a lot. And now, my
dear one, do not be angry with me and believe that I will do everything that is possible.
I think that I will begin working again. I kiss you and I am so unendingly happy that you
moved, because every time my heart was not in the right place. What will be in the
future, God only knows, and we shall hope that since He has not forsaken us this long,
He will not forsake us now. I strongly, strongly kiss you, my dear Shurochka, Katja and
Page 222 the children. Always your loving Musja “. And that was all. I called them, I wrote that
here everyone who wanted to come was placed into a camp and was taken care of. “All
of us could have left,” wrote Boldyrev who left October 2, “I tried very much to convince
Marianna F. and L.S. to leave, but they nevertheless decided to remain, motivated by
the thought that in Germany nobody would be working to sustain them, but in Belgrad
the same would be true. I believe that L.M. had his own plans.” I cannot imagine what
plans L.M. could have had, I only know that it was infinitely difficult to think of the
poverty in which my sister and her family live, if they are still alive. I do not know what
will happen here, but they could have lived some time longer. And perhaps Musja’s
faith will be fulfilled, God willing.
-------------
(Pages 269 throught 272 of the manuscript have been removed – by whom? Why?
Olga.)
II.
Serjezha and Manja.
Serjezha more than the rest of us, resembled the Schlee family. He did not exhibit
Page 223 the Nalbandovian heaviness, from childhood on he was thin, and he was not
threatened, as all of us were, with obesity. On childhood photographs he appeared
especially pale and thin. And in his nature there was nothing that reminded one of the
reticence of Franz and Aleksander Matveevich, and only during moments of inebriation
did the pure Nalbandovian hot-headedness come to the fore. In high school he was
neither a bad nor a brilliant student. He stayed in 2nd grade (6th) high school for two
years because he suffered from typhus for a long time, but received prizes for the 3rd
and 4th grades. The second mishap occurred during the 7th grade, I think. My sister,
having already returned from Odessa, had a good acquaintance, not very pleasant, very
talkative, squeezing herself somehow into our house and visiting us very often. At that
time one of Serjezha’s teachers, a nervous person, married a relative of this person, a
very wealthy young woman, but very ugly, and so, speaking of this in our house,
Serjezha said that in school they make jokes about the looks of the bride and call her
“puss in boots”. My sister’s acquaintance relayed this, and poor Serjezha was severely
punished: he was left back in 7th grade (11th) and according to our inquiries, this was
due to that one teacher (Russian literature).
I had finished my examinations and
already was in the village, but I remember vividly how Mama and I arrived in town to
pick up Serjezha. He met us at the top of the courtyard stairs, pale and beaten down.
He clearly was bearing up, but when answering Mama’s questions how it could be that
he did not pass the examination, he threw himself against Mama’s chest like a child and
began to sob like a child. This was so unusual for our reticent, almost-adult Serjezha. I
already wrote that at the return of our sister, Serjezha and I were put into the so-called
lower room, with the entrance from the courtyard stairs. In this way, we had our special
entrance, and this was very useful for Serjezha’s friends and later for myself. Besides
that, the room was also totally isolated, there were no neighbors at all, and therefore the
young people’s noise and talking did not disturb anybody and could not be heard by
anyone. Serjezha was a sociable person, his friends loved him, and due to the totally
uncontrolled entry into our room – the door was always open, one did not have to ring
the bell, or knock – made visiting very easy. And therefore, sometimes it happened that
coming down one found one or two high school boys who were waiting for my brother
Page 224 sitting there peacefully. A very unusual habit developed. My brother and I had a large,
very bright lamp which did not only shed light but also heated our rather small room so
that many times we did not even use the furnace. And on this lamp shade the visitors,
often waiting for us for a long time but not waiting long enough for us to come, wrote
notes to us. From the notes we progressed to adages and I remember that for a long
time Greek-lettered sayings remained on the lamp shade, handwritten by Serjezha’s
good friend, a Greek named Konstantin Dmitrovich Fardi, so artistic that the maid did
not dare to wash away these foreign letters together with all the other sayings and
drawings on the lamp shade which was normally wiped once a week. Well, this was
characteristic of those times. We had almost total freedom in our room. Father almost
never came down to us, Mother usually only in the morning when she came to wake us,
the maid only came when we called her and cleaned the room while we were in school.
And never, not once, neither with my brother nor with me, was there drinking or playing
cards or anything like that (except nightmares).
After all, there was a restaurant
attached to the hotel right next door from which one could have brought, totally
unnoticed, vodka and wine or beer. It is true that our comrades smoked so much in our
room that it was difficult to breathe some air – neither I nor my brother ever smoked –
but this was the extent of our “freedom.” Those were different times, different interests,
and those interests disturbed us so deeply that we truly did not feel like playing cards or
drinking. And this I can truly say of all the other high school students, regardless of
their families and their social standing or origins. In the spring of 1888 Serjezha finished
high school and began his studies for medicine at Moscow University. He threw himself
into this new endeavor, so much so that he did not even come to my sister’s wedding. It
is true that to come was not so simple at that time: while we were students we had to
travel two days and three nights to Moscow, with two transfers. Therefore, one had to
count 10 days for traveling home and this the beginning medic did not want to do, and
also because weddings were unimportant in the mind of radically thinking young people,
but nevertheless I believe that in this case his absence was also a silent protest about
our sister’s choice. Thus we were all the more surprised when, at Easter of the year ‘89
the doorbell suddenly rang at night, and before us stood Serjezha, without any luggage
Page 225 except for two books under his arm. It turned out that there were student disturbances
in Moscow and that my brother was taken from the Butyrsky prison, where the students
had been chased after an assembly, directly to the train station and sent to their home
districts in the same condition as they had gone to the assembly from the Anatomical
Institute, where he worked. Student disturbances! How much childish naivite, nonmalicious idealism, almost something noble was in all this.
The government,
incomprehensive and awkward towards the child-students and upper classes, called
this movement of the young people serious. One should tell about this in more detail if
it were not so long ago already; it has become so uninteresting and not repeatable in
our terrible and bloody times. Now, I think, nobody would understand us – students, nor
our enemy at that time
- the government - and would only shrug their shoulders
uncomprehendingly and smile forgivingly. Yes, much has changed since then and we
have learned much, but at that time all this was very serious. It was serious for
Serjezha, and it threatened to cost him one year of study if he would not be able to
return to the university quickly and take the necessary tests. What was his guilt which
had called forth such repression? The poor thing himself did not know. If I am not
mistaken, this was the so-called Brysgalovsky story. At that time, according to by-laws
of the year ‘84, the university establishment burdened the students with many severe
disciplinary requirements, so unpopular with the Russian public, and Russian students
who were busy with peaceful work, particularly. Small conflicts – not following the dress
code, attendance of lectures in a different department – arose constantly, and one of
them came to the attention of Inspector Bryzgalov. He, generally coarse and abrasive,
had been particularly coarse with the accused student, who slapped him in the face.
There was very little positive in all of this, of course, but the student was punished with
some kind of administrative punishment, either they sent him to a military disciplinary
battalion, or else they sent him somewhere far away. In any case, they acted illegally.
The young people flared up and an assembly was called. Serjezha would not have
been a Nalbandov if he had not attended it and it was not particularly risky to go. But to
his misfortune, he left through the Novozdanie gate of the university, in whose courtyard
the assembly was taking place; he was not in a crowd, but quite alone because he had
Page 226 kept working in the Anatomical Institute, and was seen by the pedel (we russified the
German word “Pedell”) (monitor) of his department. These monitors were brought in by
the new administration and basically were simple policemen, retired sergeants, whose
job it was to know each student of their departments, to note their presence during
lectures, etc. He marked down Serjezha as having attended the assembly. As usual,
no one of the administration came to the assembly, there were speeches, and a
demand for the release of the guilty student was made.
Then the police came,
encircled the whole crowd and drove it forward into the university’s huge front square
and towards evening to the Butyrskij prison. From there, after 2-3 days the “instigators”
were sent home, among them was Serjezha. And that was all. Father knew that he
could rely on Serjezha’s word, and he became incensed. Despite the fact that Easter
was approaching, and he was not feeling well, his ears ached and he did not hear well,
and he was basically disrupting the work in the office, he went to Moscow. This was
typical for Father. His energy awoke during difficult moments, but then he became
unstoppable. In Moscow he did not have a single familiar soul, he came during Holy
Week, but did not calm down until he reached the highest police department and
achieved the removal of the banishment and the permission for my brother to return to
the university immediately.
I repeat that at time everything was simpler and more
primitive than it was later – including the students with their misbehavior, and the
administrators with their decisions and repeals. I believe that he already was back at
home on the first day of Easter, and Serjezha sped to Moscow to catch up on his
anatomy the very next day.
My brother did not distinguish himself with brilliant abilities, but he was an excellent
worker - quiet, thoughtful and persistent, and all of these traits made him an excellent
physician, enjoying the complete confidence of his patients. During all of his five years
in Moscow he worked very hard, and actually interrupted this work very seldom by
attending a theater performance – when he succeeded in getting a ticket – and
spending a little time with a few acquaintances. The proverbial “student” years with what
I consider rather questionable activities, that is, sauntering along the numerous Moscow
boulevards, visiting billiard and beer halls, eternally sitting, and sometimes staying
Page 227 overnight, with fellow students, playing cards and drinking - all this did not entice either
one of us (the same in my case later on)- I will right away say –. We took the idea of
hard work from home – I might say our bourgeois or petit-bourgeois origins. Both of us
did not drink or smoke, were used to sit at home peacefully, and we brought these
habits with us to Moscow. We did not miss lectures, came to them on time, and worked
during the remainder of the day. The fact that my brother was a medical student and I a
naturalist played a big role, of course. This meant that we had work up to our necks,
and we did not return home before eight o’clock in the evening, and at eight o’clock in
the morning we were already going to lectures again. Three years Serjezha and I spent
at the university at the same time, and lived in one room or apartment, like two brothers
or two friends who had nothing to hide from one another. Serjezha was much more
communicative than I, and when I came to Moscow he already had quite a few friends.
The closer ones were Aleksander Petrovich Ivanov, also a medical student in the same
department, born in Kursk. When both of them began the fourth year, in the summer of
1892, a large cholera epidemic broke out. Serjezha went home for vacation, but soon
asked the parents to let him go to fight cholera in Kursk, where the epidemic already
was in full bloom and where Ivanov was working as a medic. The parents and all of us
tried with all our strength to convince my brother – the newspapers even wrote about
the epidemic and its horrors, and not only about the disease itself, but also about all the
cholera side effects happening in all locales where cholera had taken over – the killing
of doctors and medics. But Serjezha remained determined and insisted on his wish.
During that year I had just finished highschool and traveling to Moscow, went to Kursk
to visit him. I spent 2-3 days there, lived with the Ivanovs and only then found out that
Serjezha himself had contracted cholera, but having recovered, continued his work, and
enjoyed great fondness from his colleagues at work and the people of the district where
he worked. This was a first characteristic of my brother, a clear willingness to work for
the common good, which like a red thread ran through Serjezha’s entire life.
He
remained a physician for his whole life, loudly pronounced his views, appeared publicly
in primary roles, but a good deed always found in him a good worker and intense
advocate. And as a person as well as a doctor, he dealt in his life and in the diseases
Page 228 of his patients with careful and attentive determination, without personal selfassuredness, but once having made a decision, he held to it tenaciously and always
knew his reasons for it. It is not surprising that everyone loved him, and I was tied to
him as a friend and person even more than as a brother. In this way we lived for two
years peacefully and friendly, always working. During the first year A.P. Ivanov also
lived with us, with whom I also became very friendly. This was a nice person, quiet,
almost phlegmatic, but a true friend and good comrade, with whom our good relations
lasted throughout our lives. He was a great lover of music, but for some reason had a
wrong ear for music and always was off key. And there was a strange situation: he
knew and remembered masses of musical phrases from operas and songs, and we
asked him often: how does this go, Sasha, remind us. And A.P. would remember very
correctly, but always in the wrong key.
When my brother was working in Kursk,
according to the words of A.P., he was courting a pretty little lady by the name of Meri.
Evidently A.P. was himself not indifferent and was somewhat jealous of Serjezha. To
take revenge, he wrote some poems and put them to music from various operas and
waltzes himself. The poems were very long and in them he made fun of many people in
our circle, but I will present to you only a few lines in which he characterized our family
atmosphere, which was probably somewhat strange and amusing for A.P., with a purely
Russian psychology so different from ours.
In “Serja”, which somehow sounded like “Meri” – he makes her an offer of marriage:
“said Serja – surprised about himself,
- how did he have the nerve to do such a foul
deed - to make a marriage proposal without having permission –from his parents, he
deemed it a crime – he remembered what Papa would say, and Mama would repeat his
words – Sofie, Franz, and the whole family – all would say he is a swine! – He still has
to study, and suddently had the thought to marry! - And without our permission he
made the offer of marriage......... “
Further on the author or Meri – it was not clear who, comforted Serja, that he was
not the only one but all the people around him were courting somebody. All this was so
harmless and I, as well as the others in our circle, gladly sang these verses, and A.P.
Page 229 also – always out of tune with his bass, smiling happily. The poems, by the way, did
not have an ending, just like my brother’s courting had no end. He never was in Kursk
again and did not see Meri again.
My brother and I each received 50 rubles a month from home, but separate money
to pay for the university. In those times this was a large amount of money, and seldom
did one of our comrades have that kind of money. Our room cost us 18-20 rubles
together. We ate lunch in a private home and paid 12 rubles each for a month, which
was also unusually expensive for those times, and received a rather simple, but always
filling lunch. Perhaps this is why we kept our healthy stomachs, which was not easy to
do when people nourished themselves in what was called “normal” restaurants where
every day a list of food and the amounts of calories contained in each dish was at each
table, but despite this culture of keeping a healthy diet, after a few weeks of eating such
food one could keep a healthy stomach only if for dessert one would take only jelly one
day, and the next – chocolate, that is, the first one strengthened, the second one
removed that strength; why? Nobody knows. Going to lunch really cost much time, but
it could not be helped, and we, having eaten plenty, ran again – my brother to the clinic
and I to the laboratory. With such expenses for the apartment and also having to pay
for the necessary lunches and breakfasts of tea with enough milk, bread cheese and
sausage, plus the streetcars and laundry, there remained about 10 rubles which we
spent for theaters and books. Serjezha had been careful with money since childhood. I
have already written that we were not greatly spoiled with sweets, but on Christmas,
for example, and on special family occasions, we each received a plate full of candy,
nuts, cookies and so forth. We saved all this in the drawers of the writing desk of our
grandfather, which stood in our father’s study. And Sonja and I were always angry
because we already had eaten all our goodies, but Serjezha still had something in
reserve. At the university he spent his allowance and declared that he would only buy
“good” items. When I came to Moscow I already found two of such items: Serjezha’s
table lamp sharply differed in size and in the decorations of its stand from the type
commonly used by students and gave much more light. Of course it also cost much
more. The second item was the dictionary by Pavlovsky, at that time also considered
Page 230 very costly. This theory – basically the first expression of his feeling for aesthetics –
brought about for poor Serjezha much derision and many jokes especially from A.P.,
who at that time became such an inseparable friend of Serjezha that he was called
Sasha Galbandov.
Medical students, due to their great and necessary, constant and non-postponable
work which was carried out far from the university in a clinic situated in Devychy, lived
somewhat outside the general student body, and small squabbles as well as forgetting
them, touched them less.
Something exceptional was necessary for the medical
students to come to meetings and become involved. Their course-life was regulated –
even if not legally – by the so-called “class elder” who during our time was replaced by
“collegial elders” – a word that always seemed particularly absurd to me – which
consisted of five members. This removed individual responsibility – it was very difficult
to isolate or arrest 5 people, and professors had to consider the presence of at least
one of the 5 during the discussion of their courses. Serjezha, already once noted in “the
list”, avoided positions of responsibility but always took a great interest in the life of his
class. The head of their class elders was the famous Andrei Ivanovich Shingarev, a
doctor of the Legislative Assembly and member of the Federal Duma, killed together
with Kokoshnik during the second Revolution. Also a student together with Serjezha
was the future Professor Aleksinsky, who later became famous in Paris.
In the spring of the year 1894 the medical students of the fifth class left early for their
homes to prepare for the governmental examinations which would occur in the fall. I
came home much later, probably in the middle of June. As always at vacation time, our
carriage awaited me, and the coachman Fedor and I rolled directly to the village.
During the trip we drove into such a terrible thunderstorm and torrents of rain that Fedor
slipped under the raised back of the carriage with me, and left it to the horses to pull us
step by step through the water and storm. Rain at that time in the Crimea was a huge
happiness, and we only had one thought: is it also raining in our Bulganak? By the time
we arrived, the rain had already stopped, and Fedor scrambled back onto his perch and
the horses sped up, and the rain had penetrated the top and caused much dirt. I
Page 231 already knew from the letters of my sister that her friend from Odessa, Marija
Christoforovna, had been visiting her since early spring. She had been unwell during
the whole winter, and her doctors had advised her to leave Odessa. “She came to us
with many little boxes and little bottles” my sister wrote to us in Moscow, “but here she is
feeling so well that she almost does not need them anymore.” I stopped to see my
sister for a short while in Kojash, but hurried home, as one could not leave the
exhausted horses in their harness for a long time.
When we were even with the
Kojashan wine cellar, a horseman appeared, and to my greatest astonishment it was
my Serjezha in a coat and with a large bouquet of roses in his hand.
Instead of
studying his books, my serious Sergei rode in the morning, evidently right after tea, after
the soaking rain, because it would have been difficult to take out the cabriolet due to the
roads, on horseback, and sped to Kojash and with a face more embarrassed than
happy at meeting me. It became even clear to me how little I was involved in the matter
of things.
I do not know whether “Serja” asked Father’s and Mama’s, Sofie’s and
Franz’ permission, but he certainly did not ask for mine, and I, according to
Nalbandovian custom, was somewhat angered by this.
Chalaidzhglo was Armenian-Georgian.
Marija Christoforovna
Her father, Christofor Sergeevich, already
deceased at that time, used to be a significant businessman in Odessa – I do not know
exactly what his business was; the mother, Sofia Ivanovna Cherkess came from the
wealthy Cherkess family, also Armenian – estate owners in the Bessarabian area,
where her family had acclimatized itself to such a degree that the language they spoke
was Moldavian. In the very diverse Odessa all this was smoothed over, and the young
generation (besides Marija there was another daughter, Liza, and a son- the boy Vanja)
spoke Russian correctly and cleanly, and Marija, living in the same boarding school with
my sister, learned to speak French and German and to play the piano not badly. There
was nothing specifically Armenian in the way of religion or in the way of living, in the two
daughters, and both girls were typical young Russian ladies of those times, with their
good and silly characteristics, very reticent and perhaps, with a whif of Eastern
ceremoniousness together with common practicality. In one word: neither objectively
nor subjectively one could say one word against my brother’s choice, and all of us soon
Page 232 sincerely loved Manja and never had reason to regret this. She served as an excellent
addition to the somewhat dreamy character of my brother, and they lived their life span
together so well and contentedly, as one may wish God would grant every couple.
The wedding was in the fall of the year 1894 in Odessa, and Al. Petr. Ivanovich and I
served as my brother’s best men. After the wedding the young couple went abroad for
half a year. It was better for Manja to spend that time in a mild climate, and Serjezha
also had earned some rest, after just having brilliantly passed the governmental
examinations. For such an occasion our parents always found enough money. They
also found enough money to have my brother and his wife settle in Moscow, and
Serjezha could become a resident in the Nerve Clinic of Prof. Alek. Jakovl.
Kozhevnikov, in order to specialize in this area. A resident received, if I remember, 75
rubles a month, and a room and complete board in the Clinic, but this of course did not
suit Serjezha, and the whole time that Serjezha served in the Clinic Father gave him, I
believe, 200 rubles a month. Our father was very economical and modest when it came
to spending money, but we never knew of a refusal of money in serious cases. And this
is how it was in this case. Father viewed this residency , and of course correctly, as a
continuation of the university, and knew that if he were to refuse this money, my brother
would have to persue a career as a rank and file physician. The summer of 1895 came,
and the young couple, having spent the winter in Veyvey, having been in Paris and
Nice, came to Agach-Eli. Manja’s sister, Elizaveta Christoforovna, also came with them.
Now, from the heigth of my 70 years, it is curious for me to remember how stormy that
summer was. My sister and I carefully examined what had happened to our beloved
brother during the past half year and whether he had changed our idea of family through
the influence of his wife. Everything seemed in order, but we still had a certain feeling,
and instigated arguments about totally groundless things. I am almost embarrassed to
say that during one gorgeous summer night, we squabbled until 2 o’clock about whether
it had been correct for the young couple to order calling cards for themselves in
Switzerland saying: Mr et Mme Serge Nalbandoff. My sister with a fervor unusual for
her, accused Manja that she, against all Russian customs, had forsaken her own
personal being, and Sonja was totally opposed to this concession being made as was
Page 233 usual in the Western system. I very hotly supported her, and poor Manja, as yet not
accustomed to our vehement arguments, helplessly attempted to excuse her husband
who had been assigned the most guilt for degrading a woman until she ended with
“Monsieur”. Finally Franz, for quite a while already comfortable on the divan (the
argument occurred in the Kojashin dining room), became outraged and said that it was
time for the coachman and everyone else to go to sleep. And on the following day we
still quarreled and ended up without any agreement. Now I think that we could not
settle the issue because the root of the agrument was not about the calling cards at all!
Soon my brother traveled to Moscow to look for an apartment, and in the middle of
August came to get his ladies. In the beginning of September I also came to Moscow
and together with them, I settled into a small, clean wooden house which stood in a
rather dirty courtyard-garden on the Smolensky Boulevard. Even though the sign on
our entrance said: Dr. S.S.N., my brother did not count on any patients and he was not
perturbed by our apartment in the courtyard. I had a smallish, but wonderful room, and
the year during which I lived with my brother and sister-in-law has forever remained one
of the most pleasant memories. In the center of the apartment was my brother’s private
office, which also served as our dining room, and on his desk stood his famous lamp – I
believe the “only good thing” surviving from our student days. In this apartment the first
son – Sergei – was born on September 29 of the year ‘85. And again the working days
went by regularly and peacefully, for my brother in the clinic, for Manja at home, for me
at the university. There was nothing more pleasant for us than the evenings after work,
now with the additional company of the kind, intelligent, movingly concerned lady of the
house. In the summer there had already been a discussion about what religion the
expected child of the new couple should have. The situation was that none of us,
including the new member of the family, Manja, were particularly religious, and therefore
nobody had considered that she was an Armenian-Gregorian, and she herself did not
think about the fact that she was marrying a Catholic. After much consultation the
decision was reached that the right thing would be for the family to decide about the
religion, and that the Nalbandovs were first of all Armenian Catholic and “had their own
church”. And so it remained not only for the new Serjezha but also for Edja’s and my
Page 234 children. In Moscow we invited a kindly French priest who quickly understood the whole
situation, asked no further questions, drank a little glass of cognac with us and said he
needed to hurry away to other business.
We really continued our student lives in a different setting. The young couple was
visited mostly by old and new colleagues of Serjezha, our friend Al. Petr. had also
become a resident in a surgical clinic. We only had one servant, a cook, and all three
of us took care of little Serjezha. How we took care of him I already wrote in another
section. – After one year I finished the university and left Moscow; first I went to the
Crimea, then to Petersburg, but our relationship did not become more distant or cooler
because of this but continued through much correspondence and many visits, either in
the summers during vacations or my stop-overs in Moscow where I always went to stay
with them. After two years a daughter, Natasha, was born, and they rented a large
apartment on the Prechistensky Street, my brother’s practice was growing, and he
began to prepare for the doctorate examination and had already decided on his doctoral
work.
But Dr. Kozhevnikov went into retirement, and the relations between his
successor, Dr. V.K. Rot, and my brother somehow did not go successfully, and
gradually my brother abandoned his idea of a doctorate. In the coming years they
established close ties, and there already was a circle which gathered at their place, with
the type of left-intelligentsia direction which then was so typical of Moscow society.
The brother who served in the Interior Department was not very impressive, but still
interested my brother’s new friends, and therefore the debates and the attempts to
convert the “Petersburg bureaucrat” into the left-democratic belief were without end.
Those were the years before 1904-5 with their political and social animation. And so I
remember that during one of my visits I happened into the full circle of my brother’s
companions during a banquet for some jubilee and the famous Gr. Dusanchiev, a
singer and commentator not speaking of the great reforms under Aleksander II, not
propagandizing his true greatness, but speaking to spite the current government. And
later, in the famous “Prague” on the Arbat******, where the democratic intelligentsia
gathered, I saw the difference in the attitudes and lives between the Moscow and
Petersburg people of those times.
Page 235 During that time the childless uncle of Marija Christoforovna, David Sergeevich
Chalaidzhoglo, died, much beloved by his nieces, and left them a good inheritance and
a large plot of land and villa on Maly Fontan Street, the so-called “Villa of Joy.” This
location was very convenient for the young couple, and my brother decided to move to
Odessa. This again angered us inwardly, since we had considered his lengthy stay in
Moscow a continuation of his university education and had hoped that at the end he
would return to Simferopol. But of course we could not but agree with him that Odessa
offered a young doctor more opportunities and work, and entertainment, even if for the
only reason of having a university there. Especially upset were our elders, but they did
not have enough heart to dissuade my brother from his path. Right now I cannot
remember exactly when they moved. It probably was in the year 1902 or 3. My brother
obtained a position in the neurological department of the city hospital, and soon also a
good practice. It mus be said that he never chased after a practice. “It bothers me to
realize that the sick person has to pay his money for my wish to help him,” he always
said and this was totally sincere. “I have to live, and have to take money for my work,
but I prefer to receive enough compensation to live on, rather than to watch the hand of
my patient reach into his pocket to take out money” and my brother really spent most of
his life in employment and even took temporary positions, doubtlessly harming his
practice. The move to Odessa of course was a move forever, and the young couple
decided to settle there thoroughly. And here again the feeling for aesthetics which we
had seen in my brother previously, came to the fore. Marija Christoforovna completely
shared his aspirations and now having the means allowed them to spend a good
amount of money. One would have to see my brother, and the enthusiasm with which
he chose and ordered new furniture for the dining room. I remember how he showed
me the new dining room of red wood in the simple, but very beautiful English style with
chairs and an armchair - slender, straight highly polished sticks without any carving,
upholstered with some silky material of the same cut but of different colors, and how he
explained the beauty and also the ease of keeping everything clean, and the difference
of the lightness of the new furniture in comparison with the heaviness of the old carved
furniture. I think that in the mind of the practical Manja there might also have been
Page 236 concerns about how long these slender sticks would survive their use of the sometimes
heavy bodies of future guests, which I involuntarily also considered, but Serjezha
sincerely believed in the furniture and it would have been sad to instill doubts in him.
And he remained true to himself: he bought and ordered only good items. The villa was
in an excellent location on the high coast of the sea with wide and distant views.
Unfortunately the property, like all the coasts of Odessa in that location, had one serious
defect: the whole coast suddenly descended by a whole portion of the area and crept
toward the sea.
The whole property was divided, according to the number of
descendants, into four plateaus perpendicular to the sea, and the Nalbandovs decided
to build a house for themselves on their plateau. The area had three parts. The lowest,
right on the sea, was not habitable, the middle one consisted of unsteady parts of the
upper plateau and therefore was not firm, and only the upper one seemed firm. But the
young people decided to risk it and built a medium-size house, all made of wood and
built with the idea of the possibility of moving it to another location for use during the
summer in the middle plateau. This is where I lived with them at some time during my
trip from Petersburg to the Crimea and was enchanted by the magnificent view of the
sea, the comfortable simplicity of their small house and its beautiful terrace where the
new circle of doctors, not known to me, colleagues from the hospital with their wives,
cultured and interesting people, gathered in the evenings. And here my brother was
appreciated and loved, like he was in Moscow, and here it was loud and gay, and the
same arguments were debated. But unfortunately the hope that the plateau would
“calm down” did not come true, and after a few years new cracks appeared, became
dangerous, and the poor little house became uninhabited and abandoned. At that time
the couple built a new, larger house on the upper plateau and moved into its lower level
and there they lived to the end of their lives. But my brother built this house without his
former enthusiasm. He undoubtedly suffered an internal upheaval. The lover and
buyer of good things and books, definitely lost interest in them. Internally, and even to
me, he explained this as some kind of disillusion. I remember that after a trip abroad for
some conference or vacation which he had taken with Manja he said to me: “you know,
it does not pay to strive too much for the beauty of the house, as well as one would
Page 237 want you cannot have it – not sufficiently - it is not worth it.” Another time he surprised
me even more: “I am thinking of giving my books to the public library,” he said to me
during one of my visits. “There are masses of them. I do not have time to reread them,
so why crowd the bookcases and the room?” It was clear that all this was a symptom
of a deep upheaval, about which my brother avoided speaking to us, knowing that we
would not come to an agreement. I do not know whether it was the crowd surrounding
him, his own ruminations, his medical work, or, finally, a general turning to the left of the
Russian public in the years 1904-05 which influenced his mood, but our brother, always
leaning more left than the rest of us, clearly was leaving our circle for another one, one
distant from us and harmful to us. This was difficult for both sides, and both sides did
not want to look straight at the truth for a long time and avoided to, with an uncautious
word or act, hasten the unavoidable outcome, equally hurtful for both sides, as both
sides were sincere and not even for a second doubted each other’s personal honesty,
or stopped to honor and love one another.
I believe it was in 1908 that it was for the first time that he was invited to become
the chief physician of the Saki Sanatorium. The Great Saki Salt Lake lay on the road
between Simferopol and Evpatoria, about 18 versts (ca 11 miles) from Evpatoria. The
Saki mud was primarily used for the healing of rheumatism, and also a whole row of
other diseases, dating back to the Tatar rule of the Crimea. All this belonged to the
State, but the business was in a long-term lease to Balainov, and the mud sanatorium
had been given to the Tavercheski District Local Assembly and a section of it had been
reserved for mud treatment of the military. Gradually the Assembly developed Saki into
a large and well-established health-resort, which was not easy when one considers that
Saki had only meager amounts fresh water and was connected with the outer world only
through a wide, unpaved road.
It was only after digging artesian wells that the Saki
Mud Sanatorium could be provided with enough fresh water for drinking, for the steam
kettles, the development of a park and the dilution of salt baths, that the resort could
undertake further development.
The Assembly was not stopped by expenses,
especially since the resort had a golden floor and generously covered all expenditures
towards its well-being through the huge number of patients from all corners of Russia.
Page 238 In Saki the healing season, which needed the full intensity of the Crimean sun for
heating the mud baths, lasted three months – from May 15 to August 15, and for this
period everyone of the personnel was invited, beginning with the chief physician. Egor
Leonidovich Minjat, an excellent doctor, had been chief physician for many years, a
wonderful person whose advanced age was the only reason he had to stop working at
Saki where the Assembly as well as the workers and patients treasured him. Upon
leaving, he recommended Serjezha: he knew all of our family well, that is, he had
tended to us all of our lives. Of course this invitation was a sign of great confidence in
Serjezha whom basically nobody in Simferopol knew as a physician, but Serjezha
justified him completely, and after the first season had already established himself as
the chief physician many years before the revolution, and afterwards he again was in
Saki, I do not know under which circumstances. This work suited his character exactly.
He was too lively to become a professor – a theoretician, and he could not distance
himself from direct involvement in ordinary lives, but his natural reserved manner and
his love – after all - of the scientific work of a doctor – prevented him from totally
entering public work, as, for example, his comrade Shingarev, had done. In Saki he
worked only three months a year. Of course he took part in all technical projects for
enlarging the resort, its building and equipment, personnel matters, introducing new
healing methods (in Saki, for example, a whole special hall equipped with machines
was ordered from Sweden for medical gymnastics and massages).
Inviting new
personnel was done only by the chief physician and if I am not mistaken, in 1915 there
were 14 doctors and 40 massagers and medical assistants.
The sanitation of the
clinical department as well as the question of feeding the patients was the obligation of
the Assembly since there was neither a hotel nor a restaurant in the town of Saki – but
of course all of this was under the supervision of the chief physician. At the same time
the Sanatorium belonged to the Assembly which meant that besides the private
patients, who were augmented by so-called first and second class patients who lived in
Assembly hotels and nourished themselves in Assembly restaurants. There were many
Assembly patients, that is, patients who were sent to the mud baths by regional
Assemblies, and who were treated without personal cost and paid for by these
Page 239 Assemblies. These were treated as third class patients, but, in contrast to many other
health resorts, in Saki the methods of their treatments did not differ at all from those of
the other two classes, and the building for the third class bathers, which had just
recently been built, was decidedly more comfortable and better than the aging
accommodations of the 1st and 2nd class. In these conditions it was understandable that
Serjezha gave himself to this new work which was basically barely connected to his
primary job in nerve pathology with all his energy and love, and gladly left Odessa for
those three summer months without considering that these interruptions would hurt his
private practice. I have forgotten to say that in Odessa, even before his invitation to
Saki, Serjezha worked in a sanatorium of the Saki type, and for this reason he was not
a newcomer to this business.
When war began in 1914, the Tavrichesky Administration decided to establish its
own special hospital for its wounded and invited Serjezha to become its chief physician.
And without any hesitation or doubts he accepted this proposal and directed this
hospital which at first was located in Krasnurov, and later in Chernovka until it was
disbanded. He went to Saki only during the summer months and left the hospital to his
deputy.
It was under these conditions that the war and later the Revolution found Serjezha.
He was the father of four children, he was already a famous physician and enjoyed
general respect in Odessa, had directed Saki for 7 or 8 years already which provided
him work of great interest as well as a very good income, and had an excellent private
practice. The material situation of the family was better than good, because Manja had
sold part of her inherited property, and on the other part they built a gorgeous two-story
house, the first floor of which they occupied themselves, and then rented out the second
floor. In addition, M.K. owned an additional income-producing house in town and they
got a good sum of money from the sale of land on the Djankoy Street, which our father
had bought together with her on a half and half basis. Despite all this material wellbeing the family lived simply but without denying itself pleasures. His practice was not
at all necessary for him, and he practiced there only with patients who suffered from his
Page 240 direct speciality. He was satisfied with it and did not seek a better one. But gradually
he became less content with the liberal-democratic atmosphere in which we, mostly
intuitively and naturally rather than after logically thinking it through, were raised by our
parents and the circles surrounding us, and in which we grew up and developed. It was
said that all physicians were politically radical. Sergei became more radical politically,
however strangely as a doctor, he was meticulously careful and attentive and believed
in the healing powers of one’s own organism for whom the doctor only had to lighten its
work with the patient, more than with medications, especially when they were
administered in the old manner, when the patient did not trust the doctor unless he gave
him a prescription. However that was, we felt that in this area our brother became more
and more distant and left, from us. I do not know whether he became a member of
some socialist party, I rather think not: our old custom of thinking freely could hardly be
reconciled with party discipline, especially since my brother’s socialism was greatly of
Tolstoyan outlook and anarchy. We did not like to speak about this theme and both
sides avoided dotting the “i”. Because here it was not only an ideological disagreement.
By becoming a socialist, especially a faithful one, my brother must have seen in us a
class enemy who, even if not personally, needed to be “eradicated.” But he not only
loved and knew us, and knew that we did not act only because we aspired to a well-fed
life, but also with ideals – and honestly carried out the duties of keeping a household,
turning “all left-overs squeezed from the exploitation of the workers” to the use of the
various agricultural organizations which we represented. He knew that I was much
poorer than he, that I myself worked as well as I could, used all the blessings of life less
than he did, and especially his family, and put all left-overs into Agach-Eli, formerly a
desert out of which I developed a new people-friendly entity.
How then could he
“eradicate” me? He knew that I treasured money for the sake money as little as he
himself did, as a means of exploiting another, as a means of idleness and luxury. He
knew that we were brothers not only by blood but were also soulmates, that if we differ
in our opinions, then honestly and through inner conviction, and not through selfish,
reticent aspirations. And for what did he want to “eradicate” me? Really only for the
fact that he chose the profession of a doctor seeing himself only in a neutral setting of
Page 241 personal work, where his income was inviolable (pure) but mine, undoubtedly also
considered personal by him, the job of an estate owner whose work could only be
accomplished with the help of the soil and laborers, not so?
But socialism demanded “eradication”! Therefore we left this side of our relationship
unsaid, but it was not at all clear.
My brother’s new opinions, beginning with an
indifference toward personal aesthetics, became increasingly evident. One summer in
the year 1915 it became necessary for me to replace one member of the Regional
Legislative Assembly, M.G. Serebrjakov, in his duties as director of the Saki
Sanatorium. The functions of the director and the chief physician were of course clearly
delineated, and my work together with my brother proceeded completely smoothly, but
a great difference in our opinions was already quite evident and I felt, that in case of
need, Serjezha would come before me as a member of perhaps not yet the organization
but then as a member of the group of employees before the director, but not as a
person before a person. We felt the same during the time that Serjezha lived in AgachEli.
Ever since his marriage it had become customary for his family to spend the summer
with Grandfather and Grandmother.
It varied, sometimes they came together if
Serjezha was free, or Manja with the children and their nanny, or only the children with
the nanny, but they rested for nearly two months and feasted on Grandmother’s good
food! Feasted – this must of course be understood in the sense of a farm’s offerings –
Marija Christoforovna was an excellent housewife, herself liked to eat well, and their
menu at home always was first-class, and probably more refined than the heavy and
simple food at our house. But everything was available, without fuss, and therefore,
even though Serjezha raised his eyes to heaven with horror at the amount of food
brought to the table in the morning, at lunch and in the evening, his family did not share
his horror, and his children ate in such a way that we developed the saying: to butter
one’s bread Serjezhka’s way, you butter the bread almost a finger thick, cover it with
ham or something else, so the butter becomes absolutely invisible. However one must
say that only Serjezhka did this. And so we saw each other every summer, Serjezha
Page 242 remained the same kind, soft, sociable brother, but gradually removed himself more and
more from our agricultural work and became not its lively, only occasionally present
participant, but a detached observer and critic, with a unique, specific point of view. I
will tell you a small funny episode. When I still lived in Petersburg, Father had decided
to build new barracks and a new kitchen for the workers. During my vacation we all
deliberated together, and later in Petersburg I carefully sketched all plans with exact
measurements and generally with all requirements. We felt that we had done all we
could. The sleeping quarter for the workers was a large room with iron beds with
pillows, and mattresses with hay which a worker could change as often as he wanted,
and 4 windows, attached high to avoid the constant breakage of glass, but the upper
third was with shutters which could be opened and ventilation was total. Next to the
sleeping quarter was the dining room. The entry to the dining room was through the
sleeping quarter with a special door. From the kitchen there was a special entry for the
female workers – in the summer there were up to 20 working for us – and for the cook’s
room and into the bakery, the oven which in part was in the women’s room, heated
both. In the winter, when there were no female workers, the workers remaining through
the winter, lived in their warm room. Since the workers brought all their clothing in back
packs, it would usually be hung up on hooks on the walls, and we provided a special
room where it was anticipated that the back packs could be folded and locked up with a
key which the person who was chosen by the workers, kept. There also was a small
single room where a sick worker who did not need to be taken to the Bulganak hospital,
could lie. And finally, there was another room with a cement floor, a counter for water
and a boiler which was heated every Saturday and Sunday for washing and laundering
clothes. This room had a special entry, and was only for the workers. When Serjezha
and I met again the following summer in Agach-Eli I took him to see the new kitchen.
He looked at everything and approved, even though rather drily. “Well, and how is it with
the toilet,” he finally asked me. It seemed to me that the toilet question had already
been resolved so brilliantly as in no other house in Bulganak, and even in the entire
region of Simferopol. About 10 steps from the laundry and about 40 steps from the exit
door from the kitchen a hole had been dug and on top of it were two separate, very well
Page 243 built huts with doors which could be closed and which formerly had served as our toilets
and but were no longer needed after a water closet had been built in the house. I
quietly took Serjezha into one. But he suddenly frowned and asked: “and what about in
winter?” I did not even understand right away what he wanted to say. “In winter the
workers have to go there in wind and cold?” Yes, and at home they do the same thing
and it could not have been done differently. He wanted it arranged inside the house,
but to have it inside the house a water line would be needed, and “you know that we
have little water and that it is insufficient and is not designed to function in winter!” “All
this does not concern me, this technical side is your business, but people have to have
all comforts.” I could only shrug my shoulders and abbreviate our useless conversation.
This is how far party and professional arguments can take even a reasonable person
who was raised together with me
on the same level
and who certainly could
understand the absurdity of what he demanded. And he was not even fulfilling his
professional obligations!
Now you might understand why we avoided similar discussions. They were difficult
and aimless, and it even seemed to me that the beloved face of my brother took on a
strained expression during those instances, I would say a ‘party’ one. All this seemed
no less difficult for him than for us, but he clearly felt that it was his duty to present his
‘platform’ even here. I remember that summer, after Franz’s murder, we were speaking
to him about this senseless horror and were hotly outraged about this abomination. And
suddenly Serjezha said:
“I can understand that you cannot judge differently, but I
cannot agree with you.” Again the conversation stopped, but it is still difficult for me to
remember it. In this way political differences gradually destroyed a friendship which
had lasted so many years, was sincere and filled with love!
The family life of my brother and his wife was very happy and remained so to the
end. Inwardly Serjezha was a very soft, tender and attentive person, and despite his
reserve, he could be very amusing and witty and could entertain everyone around him.
Manja was usually even more reserved. She was stern, undoubtedly carrying some
Eastern characteristics, her upbringing with unwavering respect for her elders and the
Page 244 special reserve which was unavoidable for a woman left a mark on her throughout her
life and she laughed loudly and gaily only in the presence of very close friends. She
was much more practical and efficient than my brother, and all financial aspects of their
life were in her hands. She looked at life simply, and was just as distant from our
romanticism as from the socialist convictions of my brother. Therefore she always tried
to find a compromise and to smooth over our sharp disagreements but usually was
helpless in trying to soften our loud and passionate disputes. I think that inwardly she
did not regard us highly because of our inefficiency, but saw our harmlessness, was
sincerely attached to us and never tried to take Serjezha from us. But during minutes of
friendly sincerity she did not hide her criticism, expressed softly but always in a very
determined manner.
They had four children. The oldest, Sergei, Serjezhka as we called him to distinguish
him from Serjezha, was an amusing, witty and lively boy.
He was very talented,
especially in languages and studied very successfully. He completed the law school of
Moscow University, already during the revolution, and somehow very skillfully got
himself to Odessa and established himself as a translator for the British there. During
the evacuation of Odessa in the year 1919 he left on an English ship and continued
working for the British in Constantinopol where he met us in the year 1920. Later he got
himself to England, was very poor, then entered the film business for which he
somehow anglicized his last name.
Slowly he succeeded and married a Scottish
woman who may even been well-to-do. For several years our correspondence was
active, and his wife even wrote to us in French. But gradually Serjezhka became silent
and our correspondence broke off. One reason was perhaps my refusal to accept 2
pounds which my brother had sent to him to send to me. It was difficult for me to take
this money which he had earned from people from whom I did not want to accept
anything, and therefore I sent this money to my sister who was as needy as I was, and
about which I, as we were accustomed to do, openly wrote to Serjezhka. He evidently
was offended for his father, tried to change my mind but later became silent and no
longer answered all my attempts to revive our correspondence.
I have not known
anything about them for many years.
Page 245 Natasha was two years younger than her brother.
She was a very kind and
beautiful, slender girl, with a dark-complexioned face like her mother and somehow
crystal blue-gray eyes. She finished highschool in Odessa, and in the year 1920 lived
with our sister or with us in Agach-Eli. During the evacuation the Schnaiders tried very
hard to convince her to leave with them, and a place was ready for her, but she did not
want to leave because she knew that her parents remained in Odessa and wanted to
make her way to them.
The poor girl paid heavily for her attachment.
After our
departure, she together with brother Edy’s wife, was arrested and when they
announced: “Nalbandova can go – she is free” – she insisted that Tamara, whose
situation was much more dangerous, should go, and she herself remained imprisoned.
I do not know how she disentangled herself, but later she became, or had to become,
the wife of some scoundrel who rewarded her with some disease from which her legs
became paralyzed. In this way and when she was quite young she became an invalid
and from then on always lived with her parents. I know all this from A.I. Lerich.
The son, Boris, was a boy of a very different type than Serjezha.
Quiet and
thoughtful, he studied excellently, finished high school and planned to become an
engineer, but he was drafted, or went voluntarily – I do not know – and found himself in
Feodosia in the White Army. There he became ill with typhoid and lay in the hospital,
about which he wrote none of us, not even his sister Natasha, who also was in
Simferopol. Therefore it was as if we had been hit by thunder when we received the
news from S.S. Krim that Boba was desperately ill, and Natasha, having gone to
Feodosia, found him dying.
The last girl, Tanja, was again a very lively but not very strong girl, and during her
childhood we called her “I myself” because whenever we attempted to help her in some
manner she said: “I myself”. She grew up in a time marked by civil strife, and I do not
have firm impressions of her.
Already after our departure she married Assistant
Professor Burdenko, I believe from the family of Ivanov, and went with him to Moscow.
Nikolai Nilych Burdenko – at that time not yet a professor –practiced for some seasons
in Saki as a surgeon, and my brother always valued him highly as a worker.
Page 246 The Revolution came with all its upheavals. I cannot even remember clearly when I
saw my brother and his family for the last time. I think it was either in the summer or fall
of the year 1919, because I remember that he told me that one of his patient in Odessa,
someone from the Red administration of that time, asked him: “Tell me, is that your
brother, Nalbandov, in Simferopol?” My brother said: “yes, and why does this interest
you?” “When we occupied the Crimea we searched for him very hard, but he left ahead
of time ...” I had left in March of the year 1919. And it was unbelievably frightening for
me to hear that my brother was treating somebody who was searching for me with a
very indisputable aim, and who was not ashamed to tell this to the brother of the one
they were searching for.
Hard people, deeply convinced of their truth and of their
infallible right to “search!” When our “allies” left Odessa, Serjezha-the-younger, serving,
as I have written, in the British navy, and according to his words, tried to convince his
parents to leave with us, and to take Tanja along – Boba and Natasha were in the
Crimea – and places for them on the same mine carrier as Serjezha jr. had already
been arranged for them.
The time for sailing away had come, and according to
Serjezha jr. he begged to send another car for them, but it came back empty and
brought a note that they had decided to remain. What happened later I know only from
rumors. During the first years they were very poor. From their apartment they were
given only one or two rooms, it was cold, they were hungry, water had to be carried
from afar in buckets. Serjezha traveled to the Crimea and brought Mama, who died
soon after, back with him. The ailing Natasha came. And still life straigtened itself out.
A good, experienced doctor was valuable. My brother began to work again, first in
clinics in Odessa, and then again in Saki. He became a professor at the University of
Odessa.
All this I heard from the wife of my brother’s great friend, Mich. Vas.
Braikevich, who had settled in England whose mother had remained in Odessa and who
corresponded with her daughter.
From Serjezha himself I received several letters
during the first years after our flight, but soon he became silent, like all correspondents
from Russia fell silent. Later Sof. And. Braikevich wrote that some kind of anniversary
of my brother was celebrated in Odessa, and he was given the title of “a hero of labor”.
Then I heard nothing about my brother for many years and knew nothing about him. In
Page 247 the summer of the year ‘44 I learned that the son of a German lady who lived across
from us was serving in Odessa. I requested that she ask her son to find out about him
and he told her that my brother had already died about four years ago .
Now Volodja
Schlee writes the following to me: for several years I met with Serjezha several times in
Simferopol about resort matters. He died in Moscow in a street car of heart failure; he
was in Moscow to arrange for an apartment in Odessa which had been assigned to him
for life, but which they later wanted to take away from him. In the year ‘41 I was with
them in Odessa for a very short while, about one-half hour.
Tanja and Marija
Christoforovna were there, they were packing in order to move to Moscow to Tanja
where she lived with her husband, a physician. Nata already lived with Tanja. She is
totally broken with paralysis.” And this is all that I know after 24 years of the life of the
family who was so close and dear to me.
---------------------I experience strange feelings as I am concluding my pages of this “biography”. I am
writing of people who are the most dear and close to me, and I would so very much like
to capture their images for you, even if only as a memory, of those whom you still knew
somewhat. I want to sketch them for you as live beings, with their good, honest and
simple souls, undoubtedly making mistakes, having their merits but not any stark
deficiencies, but sincerely striving for all that is good and beautiful for themselves and
others; everything is turning out bland however, like old fading photographs instead of
living portraits. How many memories about Serjezha which still live within me, I would
like to tell you, but I involuntarily hesitate: who needs this? Who will even have the
patience to read what I have written? Does Serjhezhka have children, or Tanja? If they
do, will they see the people in whose hands these notes will fall? Will they recognize
each other, or even know about each other? And these are questions to which nobody
will ever give me an answer, and which weigh on me and make writing difficult, fading
and incomplete images. And who outside our family needs this, all these Volodjas,
Sergeis and the rest? Every day such people, such cultural values perish, not only we,
small, average and already extinguished people.
Page 248 III. Volodja and Shura
About our family I will only add dates here. Everything else you know anyway. I was
born August 2 of the year 1874, Mama – September 3, 1880. We married January 8 of
the year 1906. Katja was born November 7 (the 20th according to the new calendar) of
the year 1906. Married Josef Egger in April 1927. Their children: Ernst-Aleksander was
born July 16, 1929 in Brixen (Bressanone), Olga Maria on June 26, 1932 in the same
place. Andrjusha was born July 4/17 of the year 1912, married Olga Oliver September
1, 1937.
With a feeling of great sadness, and since I have taken on the position of biographer
of our family, I must include this addition. On May 8, 1953 at 5 o’clock in the morning I
accompanied Aleksander (grandson) who was leaving for military service. The next day
I received the following letter: Dear Grandfather. Sitting in the train station and waiting
for the train – I came an hour earlier than the others – I want to take this opportunity to
write you about the intrigue which has been taking place behind your back. I did not
want to speak of this earlier because I know that the name “Galchenko” –the name
which I decided to take – and which will be confirmed by the Court on June 15 – does
not speak to you as much as it does to me. Of course, sentimentality is not the main
reason for my decision. I have long ago decided to build my life along Russian, not
American, lines. Why Russian and not German, I believe you will understand. Olga
went along the German route, and I understand her perfectly. You, just as I, probably
had the thought of my changing to “Nalbandov”, but things did not turn out that way.
Why I am doing this (dear) act now, and not at the hour when I take citizenship, I
explain with the fact that this break in my life through military service is more
appropriate than another moment.....Mama has known about this for a long time, I think
and hope that you will also understand. I squeeze your hand, A.
IV. Edja and Tamara.
Page 249 In childhood Edja was a true white-skinned chubby German. Mama kept a locket of
his hair – totally white, and it was difficult to think that this was the hair of the same Edja
who in later years became much darker but remained lighter than the rest of us, and his
beard had a reddish tint, typical of all Schlee’s. In figure and height he most of all
resembled his father, and in his youth he was quite a fatty. He did not like to study very
much, even though he had enough talent for it. He was particularly gifted in languages,
understanding and memorizing them quickly, he played the violin well and he took
lessons for this, and besides that he taught himself to play the pianoforte and played by
ear, much to my envy, because even though I had music lessons I could only play from
notes and never just by ear, and could not remember how to play anything. I think that
the unsuccessful studies of Edja can partially be the fault of the fact that he was left by
himself much of the time. He was only in the 2nd grade (high school) when I left for the
university, and the parents lived in the village during the spring and fall. He was placed
into an apartment, and even though it usually was a teacher’s apartment, he actually
had neither supervision nor help with his studies, and gradually he neglected them.
Later he was given tutors – among them an especially solid one was my brother’s
colleague K.D. Fardi, about whom I have already written – but all this did not work out.
With many tribulations he reached 7th grade, and there he had to change high schools.
He went to Moscow and entered high school; but here, too, it did not work out, and he
was threatened with having to repeat the year. After a communal discussion it was
decided that he should quit high school, especially because Edja wanted to follow an
agricultural career and a high school diploma was not necessary for this. After a long
search we settled on the Agricultural Academy in Hohenheim, near Stuttgart, Germany,
where so-called “one-year” students were accepted; they were students who had the
right to postpone their military obligation for one year, and Edja had that right because
he had finished six grades. And so in the summer of, I believe, the year 1899 Father
took Edja abroad. The difficulty was that Edja spoke and knew German as little as all of
us, and therefore the first year was spent learning German and soon he even went to
Reutlingen where he settled in with a German family, took special lessons and totally
refused to attend the Academy. But he did well with the language and when he came
Page 250 back home, he not only spoke German but Swabian and with it amused the Swabian
population of Bulganak who declared with delight that at last one of us had learned to
speak “correctly.” In the year 1901 – or maybe 1902, Edja had to do his military duty,
and despite all our efforts was not given an extension, and had to interrupt his studies
and come home.
Afterwards he went back to the Academy and received a good
certificate. If one believes that some people “are lucky” and others are not, one must
say that Edja was particularly unlucky in his military duty and killed much time in a
service in which his heart never lay. Almost immediately after finishing his studies,
before he even had time to look around and decide what he wanted to do next, the
Japanese war broke out and Edja as an ensign was called to duty and sent to the Far
East. Returning from there, fortunately without any defects to his health, he was still in
an officer’s uniform in the beginning of the year 1906 as best man at our wedding and
only went home afterwards, to become a peaceful citizen and agronome. There, resting
in Simferopol, he met Tamara Sigismundovna Tsezenevskova who was visiting my
sister, and later in the summer of that same year married her. The Tsezenevskov family
was of a very mixed background. Sigismund Petrovich Ts. already deceased at that
time, was Polish, a doctor and seemingly a good one. Evgenia Egorovna Ts. was the
daughter of Doctor Pospishil, a Czech, judging by his name who also at one time had
been director of the Saki sanatorium, and his wife Anna Semenovna, who was halfGreek. Tamara was pretty, had received her education at the Institute in Odessa, was a
very good housewife and a very practical person. At that time Edja was in the prime of
his youth. Abroad he had learned many things – to dress well, to take care of himself,
to get accustomed to be among people and in society. Tall and well-built, he had soft
blue eyes and a beautiful, childish smile. He played well, danced, and could be funny
and entertain others. It was not strange that they met quickly, especially since each one
stood at the threshold of their lives and could fashion it according to their own ideas.
Edja took on the job of district agronomist in the Orgesvesky district of the Bessarabian
Province and took his young wife there. The settled there not badly, but this job did not
last long. Already in the fall of the next year – or 1908? – the Administrative Assembly
eliminated the position of the agronomist, and Edja with his wife and son returned to
Page 251 Simferopol. There we lived for one year in the backyard of Schektman’s house on
Pushkinsky Street, they on the first floor, we on the second. Edja obtained the position
of manager of the estate of Baron Ginsburg in the Perepozhny district, but since the
estate had been rented out, it was not necessary for him to live there. In the beginning
all went well, Edja even traveled with the accounts to Paris to his employer but then he
evidently impeded Ginsburg’s authorized agent, J.K. Reschko, who managed to have
him removed. Since this happened after Father’s death, and Mother was alone and so
devasted after the death of our father, that it would have been difficult for her to manage
Agach-Eli by herself, it was decided that Edja would manage Agach-Eli. Each of us,
that is Edja and I, received 50 rubles a month. I lived in my father’s house for free, paid
for its upkeep and everything else myself. Edja and his family lived in Agach-Eli, and
while he lived there he received all that was necessary from the estate. I took care of
the accounts and financial aspects of the house, Edja of the estate. In order to live in
town during the winter, Edja soon bought a piece of land in the Novy Gorod on the
embankment of the Salgir River and built a house for himself there. Now one could say
that he stood on both of his legs and contentedly could look to his future. But the year
14’ arrived, and he was drafted again. This time he found himself in Smolensk, was
there not long, but lay in a wet trench for three days and sustained such a sciatica that
he was taken to Moscow and after a long time in various infirmaries he returned home
so sick that he was not ordered to serve anymore until the end of the war, but was not
released from the army. The revolution found him as a commandeer of a company.
Generally a soft and obliging person, he was not only pleasant but also well-loved by
the soldiers of his company, he cared very much for the people in his company and
about their food. His company was called “the automobile unit” for the following reason.
At that time it already was difficult to obtain material for shoes, and soldiers were
particularly worried about this. Edja quietly bought a large number of dust covers from
old automobile wheels and when there was no material to be had at all, he had heavy
but durable shoes made for his whole company, to the envy of all the other companies
and their commanders. What I personally value highly in Edi is that he always was
good to his soldiers but never curried favor from them, even during the most difficult
Page 252 moments of the revolution.
I still remember that in the very beginning, during the
Temporary Administration, a new commander from Odessa came to Simferopol,
General Marks, and ordered an inspection. At the end of the war there were about 40
thousand reservists in Simferopol. And company after company walked past our house
with Crimean flags, with red ribbons on the chests of the soldiers and officers. And our
Edja walked somewhat hobbling, because it was difficult for him to walk in step with the
company, the only one without the red ribbon. – And so until the end Edja could not
escape the military.
When the regular army disintegrated, and after the fall of the
Crimea whose Temporary Administration had disappeared and an Independent
Crimean Republic was constituted, a company of officers developed and a special
Crimean military staff came into being. Edja was one of them. The evening before the
offensive on Simferopol, Edja came to me already without shoulder straps and sadly
said to me: “everyone has left, the headquarters are empty.” I advised him not to go
home but to stay with us in our yard. He decided to do that, but soon came back and
said that he had decided to go home anyway. It was already dark, and we were afraid
that he might be killed on the way, being an officer. He left his cap and coat with me
(we naively stuffed them under the stairs in my downstairs study), put on a jacket and a
cap and went home. He hid for a few days, and then our priest, Father Afnasi Avtisan
dressed him in a cassock and drove him to Karasubazar, where he concealed himself
for a long time. After the occupation of the Crimea by German troops he again was
drafted into the White Army and went all the way to Kerch where he spent a long time
and later he took part in the renewed occupation of the Crimea by the White Army
under General Dobrovolski, who was replacing General Baron Shilping. During the
time of Gen. Wrangel my brother tried again to be released from the military, and I did
everything to help him with this, but everything was unsuccessful. The final evacuation
came. When Shura went to Simferopol to get you, (Andrei and Katja) she saw Edja and
tried to persuade him to come with us. He wavered and said that Tamara did not want
to leave for anything, and he could not leave her and his son. Later we were told that
he did come to the train station, but too late – there were no more trains. Of course he
still could have left, for example, Aleks. Matv. Schlee left later with his horses, and
Page 253 probably would have found room for Edja also, but internally he must have decided that
he had to remain. Fortunately he left town, and, so they said, spent two weeks hiding in
a hay stack of a benevolent person in the environs of the town. He was brought food
there, they say it was horrible to look at him when he, dirty and disheveled, crept out
from his hay lair. Volodja Schlee writes the me the following about him: ‘toward the end
of the year 1920 I served in the People’s Commission for Agriculture and was sent to
the Karasubazarsky region in order to inspect the gardens of estates which were to be
transferred to the ownership of Soviet households. Once, going on business to the
Professional Union of Agricultural Workers, I inadvertently stepped on someone’s foot
when I stood next to the desk of the president. Excusing myself I looked at that person,
bearded and with dark glasses, and it seemed to me that the eyes behind the glasses
were laughing. I returned again in the year ’21 and met him and spoke with him for
about half an hour. It turns out that this was Edja, hiding among many other officers in a
forest district under the protection of Kara-Murzy, who was later shot for this. But they
already had noticed that they were under surveillance and decided to hide ahead of
trouble. Edja of course lived under a different last name: Emil Sigismundovich
Novikovski.”
From other informants I later heard that Edja was in Odessa, where a young Jew (I
forgot his last name) who had spent one summer with us in Agach-Eli as a tutor for
Serjezhka, and who under the new regime became an influential face in Odessa,helped
him. Further traces of Edja are totally lost and I do not know where he is now. After his
disappearance, Tamara was arrested and who knows what would have become of her
during the mass shootings under Bela Kun, if Natasha would not have let her leave,
staying in prison for her herself. Tamara also evidently went under cover and only
much later appeared working as a cook in that same region far from the Crimea, where
the new Edja also lived. They became acquainted there and after a while Tamara
married him. They had a son, Gleb I think in 1928. He was a very talented boy, a
portrait of his mother. After many ups and downs he was able to obtain a higher
education, and according to some rumors, he became an engineer in the Caucasus,
according to other rumors, somewhere in central Russia. I do not know which last
Page 254 name he carries – the old or the new one. He was married and had a son.
Edja did not have the time or the possibility to declare his political and social world
view, so much of his young life had been taken by the war and his military service. But
of course we, his close family, knew his thoughts and opinions, even though they had
not yet been formed conclusively at that time. He was softer, better, more obliging than
my other brother and I, and did not approach life with such demands as his brothers did.
Neither my strong right nor Serjezha’s strong left tendencies attracted him, he stood
somewhere in the middle, much closer to the opinions of our sister. In any case, the
profession and work of an estate owner did not frighten him at all, and in his honest
work and pay he saw nothing dishonorable. I know this because he totally and with
fervor followed the White movement and gladly worked in responsible positions in our
revolutionary cause. It was always extremely sad that he and his family did not leave
with us. He and Tamara spoke German excellently, Edja had a diploma from a German
academy, and would have been in a much more priviledged position than all the rest of
us. This terrible yoke of having to hide under a different name would not have hung
over him and Gleb probably would have received a much better education. But who
knows – perhaps all this was for the better? Let us not erect questions and let us await
the ending of all our lengthy drama. We do not have to wait long now..........
------------------------------------------------------
July 15, 1946. Time is passing and my notes are aging. I must complete them in
relation to the many relatives who are in Germany now. 1) L.F. Schlee lives in a camp
with his wife. Both have aged much and are destroyed by losing both of their sons –
that is to say, they have no news of them. 2) N.F. Schlee is working for a farmer near
Nurnberg. 3) V.A. Schlee is working for UNRRA, his wife and stepdaughter live in a
camp. 4) A.A. Schlee and his wife live in Bad Tolz, and he works as a cook for the
Americans. 5) George A. Schlee married Miss Emma Kellner on March 6 ’46.
Page 255 About the Nalbandov line: 1) While we still were in Bad Tolz, Lidija Georgievna von
Zeela, evidently the daughter of Sofia Nersesovna – my first cousin at whose wedding I
had been, came to visit. I was unexpectedly very moved by this visit. It was so strange
and touching to see a living descendant from a life so long ago. Lidija G. inherited many
traits of the N. family. She promised to tell us more in detail about the family of her
parents, but until now this has not happened.
Her father was the director of the
university in Riga, then the whole family evacuated to Germany, where her parents
died. L.G.’s husband was Baltic, an officer in the German army, same as the son, both
were taken captive, her husband (an architect by profession) returned as a very sick
man, the son is still in France. 2) Recently I received a letter from Genrusija Nalbandov,
the daughter of S.I. N. She and her sister Valerija with her husband Pavel Stepanovich
Burdin and daughter Galina (born Nov.23, 1933) live in Hamburg.
She writes the
following about the relatives: a) not long ago, before the beginning of the war, Edja and
Tamara lived in Mogilev. Gleb worked in Moscow as an engineer on the building of the
metro and received a bonus for good work as well as a trip to a sanatorium in the
Caucasus.
He was married, but evidently very unhappily and was planning to be
divorced. b) Kristofor Nik. lived in Moscow, worked in a pharmacy and died there. His
wife, Zinaida Michailovna took care of the household and his daughter Valentina worked
in the cosmetics business, his son Leonid was a chauffer. v) Aleksander Nik. worked as
a legal adviser in Moscow and reunited with his wife, their daughter died in infancy. g)
Marijana Nik. sent a letter and a package when the Germans were in Simferopol. She
wrote that all of ther brothers, that is, Karpusha, Vitja and Kolja have died, and her sister
Sofie was very sick (with her nerves).
From November 25 to 28 ’46 Genrusija and Valerija stayed with us. They were
traveling through Munich in order to buy some provisions; the situation in Hamburg was
very difficult for them. Each one made a good impression on us, and I felt an undefined
kinship with them, I migh say something Nalbandovian – somehow they speak and act
in many things typically like my old impressions of Ivan. Ser. In Valerija, Misha rose for
me again – with his proud, handsome and at the same time, timid, looks. In January
and March ’47 Lerich’s daughter visited and also stayed with us – Irena Rifenstal. And
Page 256 again the impression was the best, but quite different – as if Anja Lerich had been with
us. On April 7 Anja wrote that her sister Valija had died in ’46 – somewhere near the
Caspian Sea where the Bolsheviks evidently had exiled her – alone, as a German? Did
her Jewish husband not help her? Here one truly can say: God’s plan is not to be
known. Along how many difficult paths this poor woman had to suffer! In the summer
of ’51 Genrusija married an engineer, Pavel Aleks. Kudrjavtsev.
August 2 ’52. After a 4-day visit, V.A. Schlee left. He looks very fit and healthy. He
is very satisfied with his job as a janitor in the school of the Dominican Monastery in San
Rafael. And now A.A. Schlee with his wife, and Vova Schnaider with his wife and three
children are moving to San Francisco. G.A. Schlee and his wife are living in Caracas,
Venezuela.
Page 257 Explanations
*p.23 - John Dillon, British Diplomat, financial officer, 1919.
**p.32 - Chichikov, fictional character in Gogel's 'Dead Souls' who buys the souls of
dead serfs at a reduced rate in order to sell or mortgage them as his own
property.
***p.36- My grandfather changed the spelling of "Schneider" to "Schnaider".
****p.45- When an officer in the Imperial Army married before the age of 28, he had to
pay a certain sum which then was returned to him after he turned 28.
****p.60- Aivazovsky, Ivan, 1817-1900, greatest marine artist in history. One can view
his paintings on Google.
*****p.93 - Names of various types of apples growing in the Crimea.
******p.1 02 - Pestalozzi, Johann, Swiss pedagogue whole philosophy of "learning by
head, hand and heart" has influenced education to this day.
Acknowledgements
I want to thank my children, Elaine, Karen and Andy for encouraging me to keep
translating and for uncomplainingly and patiently helping so many times to get the
translation into and out of the computer.
Thank you also to Fatima and Alexei Buevich for helping me with the translation of
Russian words which were not in any dictionary.
A very special thank you goes to my friend Ulrike Fear who spent many hours
meticulously going through the translation, catching all the typos, misspellings and
semantic problems.