Babushka
by Jesse Halsey
In a Russian home the grandmother is always the boss. No
matter how large the house or the household, “Babushka rules the roost.” A son
may marry and bring home his bride; she merely becomes another subject in
grandma’s realm. The house may grow and sprout wings in all directions, as one
son after another marries, but so long as she lives the “little grandmother” is
supreme.
Of course, my verbs should be in the past tense. It used to
be that way before the Revolution. In the topsy-turvy world of Bolshevism
things are very different. But, in the old days . . . it was then I saw the
country . . .
One night, after a long day’s journey by sledge, we came, my
friend and I, to a hamlet frozen fast to the shore of the White Sea. The snow
was deep, the going heavy, and our horses were tired out. So were we. There was
no tavern, but we found no difficulty in securing lodging in a big, rambling,
log house near the church. The Russians are always hospitable—or were, at
least, in those days. In the spacious central room, that was combined kitchen
and living quarters, there were a dozen children. Some hid behind their
respective mothers, while the older boys stood their ground in honest wonder,
looking over the first Americans they had ever seen.
We asked for keptok (hot water for making tea). And
presently a steaming samovar was brought and put upon the heavy-legged table
that stood at one end of the room. Meanwhile, taking off our heavy
over-clothing, one layer after another, we warmed our hands against the
white-washed side of the great brick oven-stove that was built four-square in
the center of the room.
Then, rummaging in our duffel-bags, we found our tea and
sugar and utensils and started to brew the tea.
During these preparations, while the younger women of the
house were waiting on us, the little old grandma sat in a corner near the stove
rocking a sick child. His moaning was like an undertone to all our clatter and
talking.
Tea, though it be imbibed glass after glassful, is scant
provision for famished Americans, and the crusts of black bread that were
offered by the war-bled family added little comfort, even when smeared with
half-frozen jam from our supply. We were famished! So, out of my bag I pulled a
can of beans and, with my limping vocabulary, asked permission to build a fire
in the big stove that we might heat them. The young woman relayed my request,
in much more elegant and speedy language, to her mother-in-law and Babushka,
much to my surprise, answered with a resounding Netu, which even the poorest linguist might have guessed, had they
heard the emphasis, means “NO.”
When we were at our fifth glass of tea, or thereabouts, (you
never keep count), the sick child set up such a piteous wailing that I showed
my interest, by my looks I suppose, for I had no diagnostic Russian words. The
grandmother reluctantly uncovered the red, swollen hand of the six-year-old
youngster whom she held on her lap. It was an ugly sight, swollen to the elbow,
but with a distinct localization on the palm below the thumb, it was throbbing
with fever.
Largely by motion, I suggested treatment. Now, the Russians
have a convenient word, which happened to be in my vocabulary. As I was hunting
through my pack for the medicine kit, Babushka kept asking me if I were a
doctor. When, finally, I understood, I answered “No.” But I hastened to add, “I
am a Felcher.” And this I could say
in all honesty, having lived in a mission hospital for some years where one
does all sorts of practical things, when doctors are away, from pulling teeth
to delivering babies.
“Yah, Felcher,”
said I. (“I’m a ‘sort of Doctor.’”)
“Chorosho,” said Grandma, (That means “Good.”) bobbing her
head in assent.
Some bichloride (which we carried to wash off cooties) went
into a big bowl of warm water (the Captain, who looked on, warned me not to mix
it with our tea) and then the boy soaked his hand for a while. The heat
relieved the pain somewhat, I suppose, at any rate he sat quietly in
grandmother’s lap, watching my every move. Then, I swabbed off the hand with
alcohol. He didn’t move, half fascinated. With a quick slash, while grandma
turned his face away, I drew the sharp lancet deep across the swollen palm. The
little fellow howled from surprise more than from pain, but in a moment we had
his hand immersed again in the blue water. Presently it was bandaged, and in no
time he was off to sleep.
Then it came grandma’s time for action. She called one of
her sons, and in almost no time he came back in with chips and split wood and a
fire was roaring in the great furnace-like stove.
Pseuoste, Pseuoste. (Please, please) and much more
that we did not understand, but lavish gestures made the intent evident.
I hacked open the frozen beans and put them in an iron pot
that they gave us. Then another can, that the family might have a taste.
Everyone seemed happy now and more tea was brewed. The captain got some cognac
from his bag, and he and Babushka had a nip. On and on she talked, ordering her
daughters here and there, scooting the numerous grandchildren out of the way
when they came near with ever increasing boldness, as the Captain shared his meager
supply of chocolate.
In the midst of our
festivity, with a great commotion, off the top of the stove rolled old Grandpa,
dripping with sweat and swearing (I suppose) volubly. Grandma was quite equal
to the situation, for she speedily explained things, and soon had grandfather
shaking hands with the Amerikanski
offitzer. We had learned some things, in addition to a few new words for
our poor, but expanding, vocabulary: First, a Russian stove is to cook in but
to sleep on (that is as true today as it was twenty years ago). And, second,
Babushka rules the roost. That is, alas, past tense now and, for aught I know,
they may have changed even the name, along with everything else, and the
Soviets may now have no grandmothers. I don’t know. Babushka may be gone now,
but in the good old days she was an institution, as well as The Person of the
house.
