MY STORY - A little family history or as I fell into a cellar as a child

One of the bright memories of my childhood was the case when I fell into the cellar. But I'll tell you everything in order.

My uncle immediately after the war built a large house with the expectation that in one house with his family lived his mother and stepfather, who were my own grandparents. My parents also lived in that house for a while, but my mother and grandmother did not have a relationship because of the supposedly proletarian origin of my mother and, accordingly, her "ignoble" relatives.

I must say, my grandmother was from a very rich family. Her father before the revolution was a major buoy and later under Soviet rule fell under confiscation and was exiled to Siberia, where he disappeared. About his future fate, none of the relatives know. His family miraculously managed to avoid exile, but only two daughters managed to survive in that dashing time - my grandmother and her sister. They grew up, got married, grew up families. In general, they got used to a new life, imperceptibly joined the general gray mass of people and, as they say, dissolved in it without consequences.

When in the sixties of the last century my brother and I were born, my grandmother had already been married for the third time to my own grandfather Tomasz. She completely recovered from the social upheavals that fell on her share, and, one might say, rest on the laurels of a prosperous life. All her three sons, including my father, grew up, learned, married and lived their homes in abundance.

Grandmother was very proud of her origins and often told us about her father's innumerable herds, weaving into these stories the events of the Civil War, white and red, about the great famine of the 1930s and all that from a past life. Especially I was shocked by stories that in the years of starvation people were eating cats, dogs and even there were cases of cannibalism. Grandmother also told about the white army of Ataman Dutov, about how she lost her thick and long eyebrows. It turns out that my Dad's soldier was singing an unintentional candle to my grandmother when she was still a little girl.

But most of all the granny was proud of her sons. Especially senior, who worked in the party apparatus and held not the last post in the district. His elder Russian sister-in-law Aunt Nastya, my grandmother respected. After all, Aunt Nastya fought and went through the war to Berlin. The average daughter-in-law of my aunt Fatima was patient, because insofar. She was a simple, uneducated woman and respected her grandmother in a village manner and tried not to anger her. My mother, the youngest daughter-in-law of all the daughters-in-law, was the one with a higher education and naturally had more progressive views on some worldly things, so perhaps she showed her obstinacy and tried to escape from her grandmother's oppression.

For a family peace, my parents, having lived with the elderly for a short time, quickly moved to a rented apartment, which caused even greater dislike between the obstinate daughter-in-law and mother-in-law. This internal dislike afterwards for many years poisoned the life of the family and especially wounded us children. Although of course there were bright stripes, but on the whole, their relations could not be called ideal. But, it seems, I was carried away by the history of our family, so we will return to the old house and cellar.

So, both parts of the house had one common corridor, but heating and farming were carried out separately. Our childhood passed in half of my grandparents. The ceilings in the rooms were low, the windows were small. Utensils are common, as in many houses of the 60s: iron beds with knobs, a mountain of pillows, a babkin chest with a dowry. In the kitchen there is a lame table, a small beautiful cupboard for dishes (a trophy from Germany). The food was cooked on kerosene, in winter on the stove. Grandfather and grandmothers loved us their grandchildren, especially my brother, but they did not offend me, even though they considered me my mother's daughter and tried always to set against my mother.

My uncle, the elder grandmother's son was busy, an important person and did not really like the children, but his wife Aunt Nastya was a simple and kind woman. She treated us well, and my brother and I often ran from the grandmother's half to her kitchen, where we were treated to pastries and sweets.

But that was later, when we grew up a little, and I'll tell you how I, a small child of 2 years, fell head down into the cellar. Although I was only two years old, I perfectly remember everything to the last detail and my parents were amazed and did not believe that at such a small age you can remember all the details.

Till now I remember that noisy and fussy day, when in the uncle's half covered a large table. We celebrated a holiday. Kids were not allowed to walk around the table, but I and my brother, who was 1.5 years older than me, ran to look at the treat, despite the hissing of adults. Older children helped to lay the table. Aunt Nastya decided to get her winter supplies out of the cellar. That ill-fated cellar was located in the entrance room between the kitchen and the hall right under your feet. At the usual time, the lid from the cellar was covered with a carpet on top, and outsiders did not know about the existence of the cellar.

The aunt on that day long swarmed in the cellar, shouting at us not to run and come close to the hatch. After driving us small again, she continued to delve into her supplies. Toddlers from adults have been sent far away back to the half of grandfather and grandmother, whence we all looked out, opening our mouths on the pre-holiday fuss. Grandpa was old and dozed on his bed. He did not have any business before us or before the holiday.

And so, when my brother and I saw that a large and magnificent cake was carried to the table through the common corridor, we forgot about everything. My brother screamed first for the cake and, reaching the open cellar, deftly skirted it and found himself in the hall. I ran, keeping up with him, but forgetting about the open hatch of the cellar, I fell headlong head down. I fell, as in a slow-motion shot, I remember everything, especially the round back of my aunt Nastya, which I gently hit, which apparently softened the fall.

During my flight, my aunt already raised a screaming cry. I was deafened by this squeal, and I thought that something terrible and irreparable was happening and also squealed. Aunt Nastya was screaming in such a voice that if I were an adult in my place, he would surely die on the spot from a heart attack. But, thank God, the fall from the 2-meter height did not cause me, no bruises, not even pain, except for the shock from my aunt's siren. Under the loud lamentations of Aunt Nastya I was taken out of the cellar, felt, inspected and, convinced that everything was all right, was left in the care of my grandfather, thrusting a bottle of pacifier and severely punishing the grandfather to not let me out. I did not give a rest to the cake. Imagine how my brother eats goodies and especially a wonderful cake, I even allowed myself to kick, trying to escape from the tenacious grandfather's hands. But my grandfather held me tight, not understanding my mental anguish. Perhaps he decided that I was crying from hunger, so he wanted to give me a bottle of pacifier and rocked, deciding to lull me. I cried for a long time, then apparently fell asleep. Then I do not remember if I was given a cake or not. But I think, as a victim of an accident, still left a piece.

A few years later, when I already went to school, I asked my mother about this case. Mom was very surprised that I could remember all the details and, of course, did not believe it. In her opinion, one of my relatives later told me this incident. And she said that there was not a cake, but a big watermelon. Perhaps there was a watermelon, but the cake was also accurate.