Longing Memories

         Teodore my grandfather was born in 1888 in Gepiu, Romania. He died of natural causes when I was fifteen years old. My grandfather was a great storyteller and from a young age I would listen to him for hours. Sometimes he would show me the scars on his chest and leg from gunfire during the war. On Sundays after church he would go to the village pub, and like everyone else he took his own glass. Even today his glass, which sits in my living room, releases the aroma of plum brandy. He always wore his black hat, above the starched collar of his white hemp shirt, which was stiff as a tree. His favourite brown suede belt, which laced at the back, and freshly polished boots which he always tucked the legs of his pants into.

         At the many village weddings he attended, all invited families were responsible for taking their own cutlery and plates. This was for many reasons. The owner could not afford these for the entire village, and the owner was protected from losing the dinnerware, as very commonly fights would break out. Teodore always returned home with his dishes intact.

         The year before his death, Teodore told me a story that will always remain with me. Whenever he was about to tell a story he would rub the ends of his moustache between his fingers, curling them as he thought about the story ahead. His red cheeks always brought a smile to my face.
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In 1916, Teodore Soros was held as prisoner of war by the Russian forces near Kiev in Ukraine for ten months. At that time the Soviet Union was divided in white and red political groups. This phenomenon placed many people in a position where nobody knew which government was in power. As a result prisoners were sent to various places to work as labourers. Teodore was taken from the camp and sent to a nearby farm in 1917.
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         This morning will be like every other, Teodore thought to himself. He grabbed the scythe and his bag, heading towards the field. The narrow road he walked was lined with tall pine trees creating the sensation of travelling through a tunnel. All was quiet. The fields ahead were wildly overgrown and the grass swayed to the hymn of the wind. Teodore enjoyed being in the meadow and the sweet smell of newly cut grass brought back memories of his childhood, where he used to play with bales of hay. He often thought of his family and hoped his wife received the letters he had sent, advising her he was alive and well. A small yellow flower lay in Teodore’s path. Like yesterday and the day before, he picked the flower and placed it in his shirt’s pocket. Every now and then the sweet scent reminded Teodore of his beautiful wife Florea, with her long black hair and glowing pink cheeks. Whistling a tune he pushed his way through the grassland to where he finished his work yesterday. Placing his scythe down to take a drink of water he heard a cry. Teodore listened for the cry again and decided to head towards it. He soon came upon a young infant sitting alone in the field. Teodore picked up the child, whose face was red as an apple from crying.
         “Where did you come from little one”, Teodore asked, knowing he would receive no response.
Teodore decided he would take the child back to the farm and then return back to his work.


         “Alexandrova, Alexandrova come quickly I have found a small child in the field,” Teodore yelled as he approached the farm.

         Alexandrova and her daughter said nothing at first, but stood still and kept looking back in the direction Teodore came from. With only the sniffling noises from the child Alexandrova finally reached for the toddler. With not a word said, she headed into the house, washed and fed him.

         Like all evenings, the three of them sat at the table quietly eating their dinner. This night they ate cabbage soup with bread. The warmth of the soup filled Teodore’s empty stomach and reminded him of home.
         “We have decided to keep the child and raise him as our own,” Alexandrova explained.
         “What should we call him,” she asked?
         Without giving another thought Teodore instantly replied. “Boris is a strong name and well suited to him.” Teodore knew Alexandrova’s son who had gone to war and not returned, was named Boris.

         It had been three years, since Teodore first arrived at the farm as a helping hand, and now he was leaving. With a small material sack on his back, holding his belongings, Teodore slowly made his way home and headed for the nearest train.

         Teodore’s hand quivered as he pushed open the front door of his house. He found his wife Florea in the kitchen tiding up. Her long hair was tied up and covered with a floral scarf. She seemed thinner, Teodore thought. His two girls Catita and Florea noticed him first.
         “Tati, Tati, you’re home,” they cried and ran towards him with their arms open.
His wife turned around in a daze and stared at him, almost as if she had seen a ghost. Tears ran down her cheeks and she covered her face with her tiny hands. Teodore embraced and kissed his three girls repeatedly feeling he could never let go of them again.

         Teodore later found out his wife was sick with a tumour in her leg. Catita was three years old and Florea was five.

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In 1940, the red army of World War Two entered the Carpathian Mountains (North side of Romania) and soon reached Teodore’s village. A red officer placed a machinegun in Teodore’s back yard and the Russian soldiers started to pick off the chickens, ducks, and pigs from the neighbourhood for food.
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         “Teodore we will run out of food if the Russian army don’t stop taking our live stock. Everyone is afraid and hiding in their homes, especially with younger men at war.” Teodore said nothing back to his wife, and headed outside to his backyard where a group of soldiers were talking. He approached the Red Russian officer who was in charge.
         “Excuse me. Would you mind not taking our animals as I have a wife and two children to feed and these animals are our only source of food.” Teodore addressed the officer in Russian.
         “Where did you learn to speak Russian?” the officer asked, turning to give his full attention to Teodore.
         “I was a prisoner in a camp in Ukraine in the First World War and then transferred to a farm as labour help,” Teodore explained.
         “What was the owner’s name of the farm that you worked for,” the officer quickly replied.
         “Alexandrova Ciora.”
Teodore noticed the officer’s face turn white and thought he might pass out.
         “Were you the Romanian who found a child in the grass?” the officer asked.
         “Yes. I suggested to Alexandrova to baptise him Boris after her first son who had never returned from war,” Teodore explained, starting to feel his palms sweat.

         The officer leaned forward and embraced Teodore saying, “I am that boy, Boris.” Teodore could feel the officer’s hands tremor against his back.

         That evening Boris joined Teodore and his family for a meal. During the dinner Teodore felt tears well in his eyes and could not help but feel proud of Boris, like a father would for his child. Boris promised to leave Teodore’s backyard, and that his family and farm were protected from his soldiers.

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As the war began moving towards Berlin, the Russians were moving fast to attain more of the German land for themselves. Boris left the village never to be heard from again.
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