My Sister

My Sister

Often, looking back, you don't understand how you could have been so foolish and naive.

That is precisely what happened to me with my sister. Between us, give or take two short months, there is a two-year difference: she was born on June 14th, and I on August 11th, two years earlier. And for as long as I can remember, our childhood life together was one continuous injustice.

I remember the events of that time: I was just about five years old, and my little sister started throw tantrums. You see, her knee had started to hurt! I feel like I can still see her today, standing on a chair while our parents examined her knee with painstaking attention. Obviously, she was faking it—it was crystal clear to me. Everyone, absolutely everyone, was lavishing all their attention on her. And I’ll tell you right away: that was only the beginning.

My poor mother started running from clinic to clinic, from doctor to doctor—nobody could find a thing. To me, the case was closed: she was a fraud! They offered her everything, more than you could count: chocolate, ice cream, pastries... And to me: “Have you done your homework? Go read a bit! You have your music lesson soon, so read while you're free!”. And that was called parental fairness!

Then one day, on the advice of a doctor, my mother took my little sister to see a famous professor, a leading light. Of course, someone knew someone, a word was passed—and they were received at a specialized institute. This professor then said that if the knee was hurting, they had to look higher up—at the junction of the leg and the pelvis, something along those lines. And when they examined that spot, they discovered something horrifying. As I understood it with my five-year-old mind (and it remained engraved in me for life), a process of “bone decay” had begun in her leg. Even today, I feel like I was terribly angry with her: how on earth had she managed to bring such a thing upon herself?!

My mother was constantly in tears. My father, whose first rule in life was a “kind smile,” was not smiling anymore. “And she did all of this just to get chocolate!” I thought with anger, judging and condemning my little sister.

In the Soviet Union, as far as I understood, there was only one pediatric center capable of treating such conditions. It was located in Yevpatoria, in the Crimea. How my sister got in there, I don't remember—or perhaps they simply didn't tell me. But I remember as if it were yesterday our very first visit to the hospital where she was staying.

First of all, it was my very first plane trip. For that, of course, I was grateful to my sister. I think I told myself that at least here, she had done something good. And there was the airport. The flight... Incredible! My parents allowed me to look out the window. Today, trying to recall how they acted, I cannot reconstruct their faces in my memory. I only remember a sense of anxiety, and smiles directed at me... Probably just for my sake. Today, I can only imagine how deeply worried they were!

We arrived in Crimea, in Simferopol. I don't remember how we made our way to Yevpatoria. I know there were buses, and even a trolleybus. I was astonished: in Tbilisi, the trolleybus only ran within the city, but here in Crimea, it went from one city to another!

And then we arrived at the hospital. I don't remember what the building looked like from the outside, but the ward where my sister was stayed remains etched in my memory. A large, long, single-story rectangular building, and inside—one vast ward.

When we stepped through the vestibule and stood near the wide door of the ward, a female doctor, dressed all in white with a white cap, pointed toward the back of the room: that’s where my sister was supposed to be. The long hall was lined with beds from end to end. Along the full length of the side walls stretched continuous windows—like one endless pane of glass on each side. And all along both sides stood the beds. As I recall, positioned with their heads toward the center where a wide aisle ran, so that the lying children could look out the window.

The moment we appeared at the entrance (going any further was strictly forbidden), an indescribable commotion broke out. Every bed was occupied by a child. And all in chorus, upon seeing US, began to shout: “MOMMY! DADDY!”. The uproar was unbelievable. The woman in white was pointing somewhere, but I couldn't see. What I did see, however, was this: all the children lying on the beds closest to the entrance had, without exception, their heads shaved bald. All with the exact same face—the entire ward filled with “twins.”

I hadn't even recovered from the first shock—that collective cry of “Mommy! Daddy!” (which I was categorically opposed to, because those were MY mom and dad!), when another shock hit me. And at that moment, I was furious at the entire ward and, of course, at my sister—after all, she was the reason for all our ordeals!

My mother burst into tears as I had never seen her cry before. My father wept silently, the tears streaming down his face, but I could see his chest heaving from suppressed sobs. I had never witnessed such a sight. Naturally, I burst into tears right along with them.

Naturally, we weren't crying for the same reason. Why my parents were crying, I only understood many, many years later. But personally, I was crying out of sheer resentment. All these “shaved-headed twins” shouting “mommy-daddy” at you... Go feed them all! And by what right?! We had brought boxes heaped with fruit and treats with us—all of it was handed over to the doctors, who divided it among all the children.

I don't remember how we left that place, but that scene remained etched in my mind for life.

After that trip, I don't remember our return home to Tbilisi, but every school holiday, we traveled back to Crimea to see my little sister. The journey was long. I remember one day my parents were talking about money, forgetting I was sitting nearby. I think my father was saying he could work a couple of extra hours a day to earn enough for the trip. My mother hugged him, kissed him, and kept repeating softly: “Karo... Karo...”. My grandmother helped as much as she could, too.

Those trips turned into a routine. As for me, I was thrilled: to me, they were practically “round-the-world voyages.” My poor parents—they paid for them with their sweat and blood. But that, of course, I only realized much, much later.

And so, after two or two and a half years in Yevpatoria, my little sister finally came home. I think we have a photograph somewhere of her with her shaved head—not completely bald anymore, her hair had grown back about a centimeter. All the neighbors poured out into the courtyard to see my sister.

And so began the second part of the story, titled “The Continuation of Utter Injustice.” Need I say that my little sister had turned into a Queen? No one refused her anything. Whenever she went out into the courtyard, all the neighbors were on high alert, and all the neighborhood kids were under strict orders to be extremely careful. An adult was always watching to make sure no one accidentally bumped into her, hit her with a ball, or heaven forbid, took something away from her.

At home, it was even worse. I had been pushed back, or so it felt, not to the background, but to the twenty-second row! And to my memory, from then until the day I left for my studies, this continued on every conceivable occasion.

When she started school and kept playing with dolls at home without caring much for reading, my parents would say: “It’s nothing...”.

When, as was the rule in our family, we all practiced music... When I say “in our family,” I mean our household and my father's sister's family—we lived in the same courtyard, my grandparents' courtyard, which had been seized and divided after the Revolution. Well, after a while, my sister started throwing tantrums, refusing to play the piano. After some persuading, my parents decided she didn't have to continue her music lessons. Absolute nonsense! They were breaking the family law they had drilled into me! But it was, of course, the exception that proves the rule.

And it was like that with everything. Little attention was paid to her grades, but her health was monitored by EVERYONE.

You can imagine what a sense of injustice and righteous fury was boiling in my young chest. If it had been strangers, fine, but my beloved parents—my mom and my dad!

And it went on for a long, long, endlessly long time for my little child’s mind... Until finally, having grown up, I realized what a treasure my parents had left me.

My sister and I often speak of our parents and thank them for the relationship we share today. May it serve as an example for our own children—though it seems to me they are already following in our footsteps. Thank fate, and thank our parents above all!