Crimea memories pt.1
The first essay in the Crimea series, where I’m taking you on a journey to a place that became my second home.
Imagine standing on a hill. It’s almost noon. The sun is high above your head. There is a sea below. You can see its bright blue waters and the long white line of the beach. On the other side, there is a vast steppe, and the wind is rustling through the yellow grass. It’s a beautiful day, and you know that the whole summer is still ahead. You are about to return to the house, grab a bowl of cherries and your favorite book, and read it under a big walnut tree in the shade. Life is simple and full of exciting adventures and little joys.
When I was about 10 y.o., my grandma bought an unfinished house in Crimea. She had just retired, and everyone expected her to slow down and help with her seven grandchildren. However, she surprised her family by buying a house by the Azov Sea. She built this house from the ground up and did almost all of the construction herself. She planted a beautiful garden around the house: cherry and peach trees, berry bushes, watermelons and cantaloupes, and lots of vegetables and flowers. There was a big walnut tree by the gates and an arch of grape vines that led to the entrance of the house and provided much-needed shade. Grandma collected seashells and decorated the curbs and stairs of the house with beautiful patterns. The house stood high on the hill, which we called a “mountain.” You could see the sea from its windows, as well as miles of dry Crimean steppes. My grandma always said: “I have dreamed of living by the sea all my life. I worked hard, and I earned it. This is my cherished dream, and I made it come true.”
This is how Crimea appeared in my life. When I first visited it, I immediately understood my grandma. I was so grateful she didn’t listen to anyone and bought the house. I spent almost every summer there, and Ukraine became my second home.
***
Every year, I counted the days till summer break because summer meant Crimea. We usually took the train from Minsk that went almost 30 hours to the transit station. After that, we changed trains, buses, and sometimes taxis until we finally reached Grandma’s house. The whole journey took us about two days. It was exhausting, but as a child, I loved it so much. It was an adventure, and I have the warmest memories of it.
To imagine this journey better, you should know what the train looked like. It had two types of cars. There were expensive ones, with compartments that basically were small rooms for four people with doors that provided more privacy and comfort. The other car type was the affordable one, called the “platskart.” It didn’t have any doors inside, and in addition to four people in the main compartment, there were seats on the other side of the car, too. That type of car was the most popular and was often very packed. It was the car we usually traveled in, and it always had the most unique and vibrant atmosphere I loved so much.
During the long journey, everyone in the car got to know each other more or less. Women were chatting and sharing their stories; men were playing cards, solving crosswords, and drinking cold beer they bought during the short stops; young people were playing guitar, singing, and laughing; children were running around. Life was bustling there: noisy, sincere, unfiltered, human – just as life always is.
There were two beds in such trains: the bottom and the top. I loved lying on the top bed and reading, napping, or quietly listening to conversations my mom or grandma had with the neighbors. While the top bed was one of the best places because it provided some privacy, it was pretty scary to sleep there at night. The train shook from side to side and sometimes made unexpected stops, so you could easily fall from your top bed to the table below. I learned to wake up as soon as there was a strong push and grab for something. However, my younger siblings fell from such beds a few times and woke up on the table amidst food, newspapers, and water bottles. Even after falling down, they refused to sleep on the lower beds because it was “not cool,” so my mom or grandma tied ropes and belts to the sides of the top beds, preventing my siblings from falling.
The train stopped frequently at many stations on the way to Crimea. There was one station in Belarus that was located close to a toy factory. The train stopped at this station for only five minutes. The doors were closed at such short stops, but the toy sellers were coming to the windows, shouting loudly and showing their merchandise. The toys were much cheaper than anywhere in the shops, and there was a huge demand for them. Of course, it was illegal to sell toys that way, and later, police started to patrol the station, but back then, the trade was thriving. It was usually big chaos: sellers were shoving toys through the windows and collecting money simultaneously, all the children on the train were whining and begging their parents to buy them something, and everyone was rushing and panicking a little. When the horn sounded, and the train started picking up pace, people began running after it, trying to finish the sales. Often, sellers could throw the toy through the window but didn’t have time to collect the money, so someone would get a free toy by accident. However, the opposite situation also happened – someone could pay for a toy, but then the train accelerated, the seller couldn't keep up, and the person would be left with nothing. The train didn’t wait for anyone. It had to run on schedule. This whirlwind of toys, money, and shouting lasted only for five minutes, and after that, everyone would gradually get back to their usual business.
The schedule of all the stops on our route was placed on the wall in front of the train attendant’s room. Me and my siblings would frequently run back and forth to see when there would be the next longer stop so we could leave the train and walk a little. I remember older women selling homemade hot meals such as mashed potatoes, meatballs, and pickled vegetables at the stations in Ukraine. I always begged Mom to buy me a meal like that, and she always answered: “You don’t know what these meatballs are made of!” – but sometimes she bought it, and it was the feast of the year. It was so delicious!
I remember how once we wandered too far away from the train during one of the stops to buy some ice cream. We heard the horn that meant the departure of the train and started to run: me, Mom, and two of my younger siblings. Mom told my brother to run ahead and ask the train attendant to wait for us. He ran ahead, but there was nothing he could do. The train attendant helped him get on the train and shouted at us to run faster. We were basically in our pajamas, flip flops, and with melting ice cream in our hands. We had no documents, phones, or money with us. We ran as fast as we could and managed to jump in the last car. After that, we were afraid to leave the train for some time and always stayed close to it during the stops.
The days on the train were long and hot. There was no air conditioning, so every window was wide open. I loved to stick my head out of the window, feel the wind in my hair, count the power poles that were flashing past, and breathe the fresh air that smelled of grasses, flowers, and carefree summer days.
I also loved sitting by the window in the evening, drinking tea and looking at fields and forests, little villages and towns, sunsets, and the first stars. After dinner, my mom would make the beds using the fresh sheets the train attendant provided. At 10 pm, the lights on the train would be partially turned off, and I would go to sleep by the monotonous sound of the train, which was always so calming. I always slept well on the train (if no one from my siblings would fall and wake everybody up in the middle of the night, of course).
Years passed, Crimea was occupied, Grandma’s house was sold, and some Russians now own it. However, I’m not losing hope that one day, I’ll be able to take a train to Crimea and visit the places of my childhood again.
This is the first essay in the Crimea series.
Read the second part here: Crimea memories pt.2
Warmly,
Darya
Email: daryazorka@substack.com
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That’s really lovely. I remember the anticipation of our regular family holidays at a quiet beach town and your essay brought that all back. Your grandmother sounds like an amazing woman! Such special memories.
I can hear the train rattling!