A treasure trove of memories lies hidden in the vault of my mind. Whenever I unlock this box, my childhood recollections come flooding back, vividly unfolding like vibrant scenes, touching my heart and stirring my soul to profound depths... I remain deeply moved by these memories, infused with lessons of resilience, love, and hope, stark realities and wondrous moments. Their impact remains potent, a testament to the indelible mark of my past on my present. My limbic system, the seat of emotions, remains exquisitely sensitive to the echoes of my childhood. I vividly recall my father's gentle hands, carefully pouring fish oil from a bottle, serving it with love to his undernourished children, a spoonful of this potent elixir, both bitter and sweet. While my siblings resisted this ritual, I cherished the distinct aroma and flavor, nostalgic reminders of paternal love. My father's devotion to his children's well-being shines through these simple acts.
My brother and two older sisters disliked this tradition immensely, but I cherished and continue to enjoy the aroma and taste of fish oil, a poignant reminder of my father. The divine hand of Providence! In the month of Adar, typically a time of joy for Jewish people, a stark contrast unfolded. For on Adar 22, 1955, Providence brought forth a somber day for our family when my father passed away. The dire circumstances led my mother, in her desperation, to make the heart-wrenching decision to give me away, one of her five children struggling with hunger. At just five years old, with my youngest sister only nine months old, my mother's hope was that I would find a better life with her childless sister. Following a week of traditional mourning, my aunt and I departed our impoverished town for a new life, leaving behind my siblings who couldn't help but feel envious of the sunny prospects awaiting me in Odessa. Regrettably, the allure of a vibrant city like Odessa, known for its abundance, did not bring me the happiness one might expect. Growing up in a shared apartment building where three families shared kitchen and toilet facilities presented its challenges. The neighbors' frequent altercations and verbal disputes were a harsh reality.
Life presented numerous challenges in that tiny, cluttered kitchen, where filth seemed to cling to every surface. The bathroom, a constant battleground, was always crowded and reeked of desperation. My aunt and her husband occupied a small studio apartment, a space where privacy was a distant memory. The sound of my uncle's drunken outbursts, laced with curses and threats, filled the air, as he brandished objects or knives, leaving my aunt battered and bruised. In those moments, our home resembled a wild animal's den, where a furious father lashed out and a devoted mother defended with all her might. I would cower in the corner, my heart racing with fear, and when I saw the blood, I would rush out to call for help, ashamed of the man who was supposed to be my father figure.
Despite the challenges I faced, I realized my struggles were not as daunting as my cousins'. My uncle's nephew, two years my senior, struggled with dyslexia, an undiagnosed condition that hindered his reading abilities back then. The school's harsh response to his struggles was disheartening, compounded by his father's constant intoxication, which often left him battered. Though I'd nurse his physical wounds, I couldn't mend the deeper emotional scars. After he ran away, he fell in with a rough crowd, yet he still looked out for me, shielding me from the dangers that lurked on our streets. Fearless, I escaped to the Black Sea, where its waves enveloped me in a sense of love and acceptance. The sea's vastness never grew tired of me, and I spent hours swimming, diving for clams that my cousin would later enjoy. Exhausted, I'd bask in the sun's warmth on the sand, lulled to sleep by the soothing sounds of the waves until the sun's intense rays would remind me of its presence. In those moments, I longed to be one with the sea forever. When I confided in my aunt about my unhappiness, I made up my mind to return to my mother, preferring the hardships of poverty and worn clothes to the abuse and toxic environment I was in. I was thirteen. The cold, austere town where my mother lived was a world apart, but it felt like home. My mother, with her strict yet compassionate demeanor, was a breath of fresh air. Her piercing gaze, though intimidating, was a testament to her love and concern. At night, I'd hear her muffled tears, and my heart would ache knowing she worked tirelessly to provide for us, sacrificing rest and forth, feeding the furnace of the factory so we could have food on the table. There were days when our meal consisted of just a potato... Even the pears from our tree were bitter at first, but as time passed, they'd sweeten. We'd collect the fallen fruit, store it in the attic, and wait for the ripening process. The sweetness of those pears has stayed with me, and I wished my mother's tears would follow suit, becoming sweeter with time. Leaving the city was the best decision I made; I found solace and peace with my mother. Only once was I reminded of my longing for the sea when I saw a mirage on a hot road, a blue-green wave that seemed to call out to me...
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