Letter from my Father Read Online Free Page A

we repeated it. Never did Uncle lose his gentle tone. He seemed to have so much faith in me.
    He would lay out matches that he had collected to show me how two matches and two more added up to four. I seemed to learn better when dealing with familiar things I could see.It was the sound combinations that were just too hard to remember.
    It delighted me that my new Uncle was kind to me. I came to trust him. I trusted people easily and believed what I was told. I told the truth and thought that everyone else did too. One summer day I went with Aunty to the farm near Zbaraz that had belonged to her mother and father. It was overgrown but full of cherry trees with leaves that shimmered in the sunlight. Aunty was in a good mood. She climbed up a tree laden with cherries and picked some and threw them down for me to put in a bucket. I ran around gathering the cherries as we talked.
    But then everything changed again. My uncle became sick. He had a stone in his kidney and had to go to the big city of Lvov to be examined. Aunty went with him and they needed to be away for several weeks. I stayed with my uncle’s sisters, Aunty Erna and Aunty Susia. Once they had left, I quite liked this new arrangement. I did not miss Aunty and Uncle at all.
    My new aunties lived in a big house beside the River Gniezna. They made a living by baking bread-rolls and selling them on the black market . They baked in their own kitchen and then sold the rolls to anyone who wanted them, rather than working in a government-controlled bakery. The aunties’ bread-rolls were fresh and fragrant and popular so they brought in extra money. The house was always full of the wonderful smell of baking.
    Aunty Erna and Aunty Susia were better off than Gita and Welo. Their house had rooms with big windows through which the sun streamed. I had my own room but spent most of my time outdoors, playing by the river. They were kind to me and I was allowed to play almost all the time. They did not fuss over my learning. I liked wandering along the river and skipping through the grass without anyone disturbing me.
    I would throw stones into the water and watch the ripples spreading in ever-widening circles, each time a little differently, but then dying away. I found this soothing and did it for hours. One day as I was running along the river, the red ribbon from my hair fell into the water. I reached over to get it, overbalanced and fell in.
    The water was dark and deep. I could feel myself being dragged down, drowning. I wondered who would miss me. Perhaps I would see my mother and father again? But it was not my time. My dress caught on an underwater branch. Some boys playing nearby saw and heard me and formed themselves into a chain. The first one grabbed my hand and they pulled me up the bank, through a huge patch of nettles which stung my skin and made it burn. Soaked, frightened of what would happen and in pain, I cried all the way home. And what about my red ribbon? Now the river bank became not a playground, but a threatening place.
    I loved taking care of the stray cats which roamed around the meadows near the river. I looked after them one at a time. I stroked them and fed them and waited to see them grow. But they died, one after another. After each death I organised a burial and a funeral ceremony. I liked to put flowers on their graves. Then there were so many funerals that it all became too much. I decided that I hated cats.
    It was time for me to go to school. This part of Poland now belonged to the Soviet Union and the language spoken at the school was Russian. My classroom was a bare room with wooden desks set in straight rows with a blackboard in front for the teacher. Above the teacher’s desk was a large picture of our batko (father) Stalin. He gazed down kindly on us. He seemed to have a twinkle in his eye and I liked his bristly moustache. We knew that he loved children since we had seen many films in which he stood high up on a platform