Nadezhda Simonovna has long deserved her own column. Of all the people with whom I reunited in Russia after thirty-four years, she was the one I would have recognized anywhere. Nadezhda Simonovna is the mother of my friend Volodya. After a thirty plus year hiatus in communication, I had contacted Volodya about two weeks before our 2011 arrival in St. Petersburg to ask if he wanted to meet for coffee with Meryll and me. Russians don’t seem to meet for coffee. If I base all my observations on Volodya, they also want to meet you at the airport, drive you to historic places through god-awful traffic and take you home to a multi-course feast afterwards before asking when they can see you next.
Coffee? Hardly. Volodya asked for our travel details and called the moment we arrived in St. Petersburg to plan our meeting. The first destination would be to visit his mother, who was staying at a sanatorium about an hour away from the city close to the Finnish border. A sanatorium is not a home for the mentally ill nor for those with tuberculosis, but a place of rest and relaxation that used to be reserved for Communist Party members as a vacation destination. Nowadays, anyone can go there for treatments which are still somewhat mysterious to me.
I was an intruder in Volodya’s apartment in 1976 and 1977. Whenever his father was around, I felt a cold wind. His father would pretend not to see me, almost wishing away my appearance. I understand better now that hosting me at his apartment threatened his father’s job since he worked in the top secret aerospace industry. There was another room occupied by a nonfamily member who would crack the door open and glare at me when I passed. Somehow I seem to remember a rifle against the wall in that room, but that could be my imagination. Volodya’s mother, Nadezhda Simonovna (Nadya), was incapable of being unfriendly even when it would be politically expedient. Her warmth and smile were welcoming. But did she really want to see me again?
Volodya drove us through the snarled traffic of St. Petersburg past the village where Vera and Alexei lived. We were passing scenery reminiscent of the forests of northern Minnesota. After an hour we reached the estate dominated by the Soviet era functional architecture plopped in the center. Volodya took us directly to his mother’s room. Nadya, 86, at that time, enthusiastically hugged me telling me how good it was to see me and invited us all in. She directed us to her loveseat and instructed us to sit while she offered us food and drink. Meryll chose to sit on the floor and Volodya left to do errands.
While Nadya offered chocolates, she described how much she was enjoying her stay at the sanatorium and never had a problem making friends. Nadya not only opened her heart to us but also her history. Fascinated that we were writing a book, she asked how she could help us. We asked about her family.
Nadya settled in, her brown eyes resting on mine, arms crossed heaving a sigh to prepare herself. The 1930s were a time when Jews and many Communist loyalists were frightened that the next knock on the door would be the police. “Stalin took away all the good people,” Nadya said. She was right. He removed most of the competent individuals of a certain rank by falsifying charges and sending them to Siberia. If someone became too popular or a threat in Stalin’s eyes, he was assassinated or taken away. But anyone could participate in this purge by turning in an annoying neighbor or an ambitious co-worker to the police for a trumped up “anti-Soviet” crime, and Jews were especially vulnerable.
“My parents were loyal communists so they weren’t religious, but we were Jewish.” The time came for the knock on the door of Nadya’s family apartment and she remembers her Papa taken away, accused of an invented political crime. In the 1930s arrest meant prison. Her mother was arrested as well -– her crime-- being the wife of a criminal. She was taken to a prison settlement with Nadya and given an offer to become an informant for the KGB in exchange for her freedom. “She refused,” Nadya said with melancholy and pride, "and was sent far away to Kazakhstan." That’s when Nadya and 99 other children were deposited in an orphanage.
She took a breath, coming up for air, and asked how I found Volodya. “My friends are all jealous because Volodya is the best son.” Volodya had returned to the room, seated himself on the bed and just shook his head with a bit of embarrassment.
I asked her to tell me about the orphanage. She described a cold, heartless place with bars on the windows. One time, the children hatched a plan to write letters to their parents (though they would not have known their current addresses in prison) and stuffed them into the clothes of the smallest girl. They lifted her up and she squeezed through the window above the door. The guards began shooting. She didn’t die.
Another rise to the surface. “Everything is different now,” Nadya said. “I’ve been to twenty-two countries. Don’t you think St. Petersburg is nicer than Paris? And isn’t our Peterhof (the Summer Palace) more beautiful than Versailles? I have an apartment right behind Kazanskii Church off Nevskii Prospekt, I have wonderful friends. I do my cross-words and adore my grandchildren. One of my grandsons met Putin twice. Volodya, show the photo of the meeting."
I see a handsome young man who reminds me of young Volodya shaking Putin's hand.
Then Nadya asked me if I knew how many cars are in Volodya’s family. When I had previously been in Russia in the mid 1970s, obtaining a car involved paying over a year’s salary and waiting in line for at least that long. Volodya argued that three of the cars were his and his wife’s and the other two were bought by his adult children.
With a little encouragement, Nadya was willing to submerge herself back into the depths of her history, saying that eventually a Ukrainian aunt found her in the orphanage and secured her freedom. Her mother was released many years later in 1945. A man, who had served time in prison with her father, reported that her father had said, “There will be a time when people know this is wrong.” That time did not come until after Stalin’s death when Khrushchev denounced Stalin. All those who had been declared “families of enemies of the State” were no longer stigmatized.
Nadya described her education at the Institute of Civil Engineering, the same institute that Volodya attended. She was a star volleyball player. For 43 years she served the city she loved. She was responsible for road building in Leningrad. She smiled and joked, “What Peter did not draw, I did.” There was Peter and there was Nadya-- the builders of Leningrad.
Nadya had no bitterness as she spoke. She remembers her Papa’s words “think of those who don’t have as much as you, not those who have more.”
Another sigh and a smile as she told us, “Everything has changed. Everything is better now.” She was satisfied with Putin. “He is a very smart man who did a lot.” She was never a Communist Party member and never believed herself a part of the Soviet system. “There are a lot of Jews in power now.” She cited Mikhail Prokhorov, the NJ Nets owner and third richest oligarch. Her generation is excited to vote. Volodya’s generation is a bit more jaded perhaps understanding that the elections are rigged.
“Communists didn’t allow us [Jews] to observe. They also forbade Christianity. Now we’re like everyone.”
As we were saying goodbye, Nadya thanked us for coming. Holding Meryll’s hand, she explained to her, “Leslie and I always got along well. I was afraid of her at first because she was American, but when she started peeling potatoes with me, I knew she was okay.” I hugged her tightly, not sure when and if I would see her again. She wished that we would all be in the city at the same time because she would like to have us over and show us her photographs. I would have loved that too. “Next time, perhaps?” she asked.
Nadezhda’s name means hope. Throughout her life she seems to have carried an unbroken spirit and a continuing appreciation for her life, her family and her city. There is a prayer for healing which asks for refuah shlemah (complete healing). As our bodies age, I wonder if that refers to the healing of the spirit, ultimately for a peaceful, contented spirit like Nadya’s. After more hugs, I left the room, grateful that my spirit had been renewed by Nadya.
