Easter Egg Tapping

Many years ago, after relating stories of past holidays and family gatherings, my then young daughter astutely observed, "Traditions ain't what they used to be."  One of the tales told involved Easter and the simple joy accompanying of eating an hard-boiled egg.

Today, in an age of Easter baskets brimming with chocolate bunnies, jelly beans, and candy bars, it is difficult to believe there once was a time when children gleefully devoured colored eggs with a sprinkle of salt.  Yet, like Camelot, there was such a time.

Contemporary Easter basket

Perhaps it wasn't just the hard-boiled egg that brought such joy, but rather the ritual that accompanied it.  We called it bitki.  Others called it tapping Easter eggs.

Russian Easter eggs

Bilki is a simple sport.  All that is required is two participants and a pair of uncracked Easter eggs.  The object is to crack your opponents egg.  The two challengers smack the rounded ends of their eggs against each other until one shell shatters.  The whole egg is declared winner and the owner takes possession of the loser's egg and eats it.  It is also believed the winner obtains a year's worth of luck from the vanquished.

In Ikons: Saint Nicholas the Wonder Worker, I introduced bilki in a scene between Akulina and her father Boris.  Akulina was despondent after Massey emigrates to America and Boris tried to cheer her up with a quick game of bilki.  For the hard-boiled Boris, it was a subtle way to show his love.

* * *

"Come, good luck for the year.  Even the Tsar can use luck, so they say."

Akulina shook her head and continued to attend to Stepha.

Boris walked over to her side, slowly put his arm around her, and said softly, "For Massey?  Bring him some luck."  Gently he led her to the table.

She picked an egg at random and sat opposite her father.  They brought the eggs together, hers cracking the rounded end of Boris's egg, just off the center.

"Someone else gets all my good luck for the year," exclaimed Boris in mock surprise.  "It's all in the wrist," he said softly to himself.

* * *

A winner and loser. 
"© Superbass / CC-BY-SA-3.0 (via Wikimedia Commons)"

Bilki appeared in my third novel, Slogans: Our Children, Our Future.  Following the Communist takeover of Unkurda, the People's Committee did all in their power to stamp out religion.  I wrote this scene to illustrate while religious ceremonies may have gone into hiding, some secular based Easter customs were practiced as a sign of open defiance.

* * * 

Of all the traditions, only the Easter egg continued.  The colorfully decorated orbs withstood the onslaught of freethinking and still filled wicker baskets as in past.  Along with the eggs remained the tradition of bitki.  The sound of butting eggs and laughter was heard for several days following the feast, for bitki was a game without real losers.  Even if your opponent shattered your egg with his, you still could eat the vanquished foe with a sprinkle of salt and wash it down with honey ladened chi

* * *

We still dye eggs during Easter week, but not on the past scale.  The few we do are later chopped up for egg salad sandwiches. I can't remember the last time we tapped them. 

The joy of decorating eggs still remains

Perhaps the downfall of bilki was the advent of the plastic egg.  Those ubiquitous candy-filled orbs are now the target of egg hunts.  As the children grew older, money replaced candy and led to furious competition.  Unfortunately, plastic eggs do not inspire tapping contests.  My daughter was correct, traditions ain't what they used to be.

It's hard to tap plastic eggs

Rockdale School Fire

One of my writing associates is a great believer in totally structured plots.  That is, before he writes his novel, he creates a detailed outline describing each and every event.  I, on the other hand, write organically.  I know where my story begins and ends, but unexpected events crop up that generate new and totally unforeseen scenarios.

Example of An Organic Event

In Chapter Twenty-One of Slogans: Our Children, Our Future, the Peoples' committee of Unkuda  confiscate the dacha of absent aristocrat and turn it into a school for the village's children.

* * *

The estate was as vast as its storied past.  It boasted an immense yellow brick dacha trimmed in blue with a dozen well-lighted rooms, a carriage house and an offset summer kitchen.  Several out buildings sprinkled the rolling grounds and included a smoke house, ice shed, two barns and even a watchman's tower.  The entrance to the grounds was guarded by a massive set of stone pillars anchoring a seemingly impregnable wrought iron gate.  A curved roadway wound through an apple orchard and past sculptured gardens and was designed to impress even the most jaded revelers with the owner's diverse array of flora.  At the terminus visitors were welcomed by a squad of whitewashed Greek columns that stood at attention across the veranda and supported a red-tiled roof soaring more than three stories above a series of curved steps.  At the top of the stairs, a thick wooden double door, twice the width of a stout man, presented the final barrier to the interior.

* * *

Stepha was one of those arriving the first day of school and was awestruck and humbled by a elaborate structure unlike anything he had ever witnessed.

* * *

Stepha followed the designs until they lead to a staircase that bisected main floor and rose up to a mezzanine.  From there the stairs ascended to the second floor and spread to the hallways beyond.  Stepha craned his neck to see the chandeliers hanging high above him and felt light-headed when he tried to grasp the immensity of the building.  His eyes flitted across the ceiling and rested on the figures of angels carved into the corners of the crown molding.  The heavenly beings looked bewildered and stared down at Stepha and seemed to ask, “Why do you desecrate our home?”

* * *

A few months later, Stepha's educational experience took a path similar to mine.  I began first grade in 1948, a week after Labor Day.  As I posted previously, I was the youngest member of our local "gang" and was eager to participate in their mysterious world called school.  In the predawn hours of early November, our world came crashing down -- literally.

At approximately 4:00 am, a fire broke out in our school's kitchen and quickly spread.  As the town's fire department siren wailed, my father burst into my bedroom and outlined against the orange glow of the window told me to get dressed. "Your school's on fire."

Rockdale volunteer firemen hose down the remains of their school

Like my father and I, Stepha and his brother Vanya, rushed to the scene of their burning school.

* * *

Accompanied by the pealing of the village bell and distant shouts, the two hurried from the izbah straight into hell.  The sky was as bright as midday and a cloud of acrid smoke hung over the village like the morning fog’s cloak.  At first, it looked as if the flames were just outside their home, but as they ran it became apparent the fire was farther away.  They followed the beckoning brilliance along the river to its source beyond the village's edge.  The inferno's call led them to the school.

* * *

While the photo below is not that of my school, it is what I remember from that morning and the way I described it from the boys point of view.

Fire engines from several departments assisted the Rockdale volunteers

 * * *

As they grew nearer, they could feel the heat on their faces and hear the crackle.  Fire shot from the windows and door, and crept along the joints of the brick   For a moment thick smoke billowed from the beneath the ground floor, then erupted into a sheet of flame that forced the onlookers to shield their faces.  The crackle became a roar and even the ground around the school was covered with smoke and fire.

* * *

I wanted to write something more dramatic for the source of Unkurda's fire than kitchen grease, so I placed the blame on Simon Petr and his hatred for the the village's new rulers.

* * *

Flashes of flame played across Simon Petr's face and his eyes burned with a fierceness beyond the reflected light.  “Yes, we will pay.  But thou will pay also.  Do thou believe only the guilty wilt learn fear?  No, Boris Lukavich, the innocent shalt learn to fear the ungodly ones.”  Simon Petr then swept his hand across those gathered before him and shouted.  “Perhaps thou more so than I.”

* **

The older boys told me they heard yowls from the trapped custodian's cat during the fire.  Whether it was true or not, the image and sound invaded my dreams.  I decided to pass this experience on to my protagonist and give Stepha restless nights.

* * *

The roaring of the flames mixed with the imagined screams of the caretaker's trapped cats stole Stepha’s sleep for weeks following the school fire.  He huddled on his ledge next to Vanya and tried to dispel the cries by concentrating on the sounds of the long winter’s night: Dadushka snored with a deep rasp, while Mati let out soft puffs and the izbah groaned from cold. 

* * *   

The Aftermath

When I introduced the school fire, I didn't anticipate its importance to Stepha and how the burnt ruins would become the site of many pivotal scenes.  I believe my most moving scene expressing brotherly love takes place within the confines of its charred timbers.

* * *

“Here,” Vanya said taking off his own coat and gloves, “I've warmed them up for you.”  Stepha allowed Vanya to slide his arms into the heated shoba and barely moved when his little brother placed the rukavetsa on his hands.  “I'll leave the ear flaps up,” Vanya said after he put the ushanka on Stepha's head.  “It's not that cold.”

Stepha didn't even object after Vanya donned his own clothing and squeezed in next to him. 

“You ran very fast, Stepha.  I didn't think I could catch you.”  Then Vanya cradled his big brother in his arms and prepared to face a long night.

* * *

Rockdale Public School Today

Both Stepha and I continued our education in new buildings.  Stepha moved over to the carriage house and my class spent several months as guests of the United Sates Navy.  The Great Lakes Naval Training Center allowed Rockdale to use several Quonset huts at the reserve center.  My classroom was the gunnery training facility and contained several varieties of 20 and 40 mm antiaircraft guns.  Playing on those guns during recess is all I recall from those days.

Full Circle

Last week I received a photo of my vacationing grandson.  He unknowingly reenacted my experience from seventy-years ago while visiting the battleship USS North Carolina.

Grandson manning a 40 mm antiaircraft gun

Dancing for Life

My research into the era of Slogans: Our Children, Our Future took me into some very dark places.  The horrors people endured during Russia's war and revolution were beyond description. The most heart wrenching ordeals were those heaped upon children.  Since my main characters are two orphaned boys, I gathered information from the period and imagined what their lives may have been like.  In several instances I uncovered photos and films of street urchins attempting to survive by playing music and dancing.  I tried to place myself in their minds where a performers' skill is the difference between life and death.

A prime example is the boy in the following photo.  I wondered if he was a prodigy who in another life may have been another Mozart.  Or was he like my character, Stepha, a performer of limited talent desperately scratching out a humble child's tune in hope of a coin? Was he performing for himself or did his family's livelihood depend on his talents?

Young violinist in the Warsaw Ghetto - Circa 1942

And what of the raggedy dancer in the following film clip?  Why did he smile?  Did he enjoy being filmed like so many of today's children when they view themselves on DanceCam duriing an athletic event?  Or had he no choice but to smile at the cameraman in hopes of a favor?

Since my character, Stepha played a concertina and his brother Vanya danced, I had them survive by using what talent they possessed.

 Young Russian entertaining Nazi soldiers - Circa 1942

* * *

“Ya know how to play this?” Ryzhy said pointing at Stepha's concertina.

Stepha answered with an unsteady, “Da.”

“Can ya dance?”

“Nyet,” said Vanya pushing his brother aside.  “But I can.”

Ryzhy rubbed his hands together.  “Good, good.  We need someone to attract a crowd.  If ya can play, ya might get a few coins and we might even do better.  Let's hear a tune.”

Stepha strapped on the instrument and belted out the first three bars of The International.

“Stop,” Ryzhy shouted waving his hands above his head.  “Are ya crazy?  Do ya know where ya are?  Ya play that at the market and they'll kick yar Bolshevik ass from here to Kiev.  Can ya play anything else?”

Stepha squeezed out his old standby My Little Duck and Vanya squat danced across the dirt floor.  Before the first stanza was over, the whole gang was hooting and clapping to Stepha's rhythm.

 * * *

We must also remember the homeless waifs were not pitied or helped.  They were called "street Arabs" and were despised and beaten by many like Constable Gerous who saw them as vermin to be exterminated.

* * *

Rats.  Rats by the dozens, hundreds, and thousands swept through his mind with every word she uttered.  He envisioned a carpet of the filthy, gray vermin sweeping across the market place and train station knocking over kiosk, grabbing food, stealing whatever they could, and mocking his authority.  Constable Igor Gerous, once Commander Gerous of the Konarmia, scourge of the steppes, had been reduced to chasing hordes of children. 

* * *

There are no recorded images of young Stefan and John performing, but I did find this film clip from the 1950's.  It was taken on the river bank which bordered Stefan's dacha.

Stefan and John performing

It appears the brothers' dancing genes have been passed down several generations. There does seem to be more than a passing similarity in their moves.

Stefan's great-grand children displaying their talent

Leo Frank

One of the more intriguing exercises in writing historical fiction is tying seemingly unrelated events into the plot.  Such was the case of Massey and Leo Frank in Slogans: Our Children, Our Future.

In the early 1920's fear of Bolshevikism washed across America leading to the Red Scare and strong anti-immigrant feelings (Sound familiar?)  I wanted to make this threat intimate by having my protagonist a target of Wolford W. Scott's American Protective League. 

Originally founded to combat German spies, the APL turned its sights on Bolsheviks

My original draft had Massey a passive victim saved only through the efforts of others.  In the rewrite, he became an active participant in his defense.

* * *

Massey shook the contribution jar before putting it on the shelf and peered inside.  Sure enough, there were two quarters.  Maybe it’s time they knew the difference.  As he stared at the coins Massey decided to do something that would be unthinkable in Russia.  He would speak to the police.

 * * *

This still left the problem of how do these powerless immigrants successfully take on the government?  The answer was Abraham Minsker.  The banker used his influence to obtain lawyers from the Civil Liberties Union to appear at the Will County courthouse during immigrants' arraignment.  But I still needed a connection, good reason for Abraham to do it.

 * * *

The seven eyed at one another.  “But why?” Massey asked.  “Why would a group of Jew lawyers help us?”

Abraham took off his spectacles and wiped them on his vest.  “I am the president of this bank,” he said and placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose.  “A small bank to be sure, but a bank none the less.  I’m a Jew, and for too many in this country being a Jew is all that matters.  That's why I want to help you.”

“I don't understand,” Massey said.  “What does being Jewish have to do with helping us?”

“Because of Leo Frank.”  Abraham Minsker scanned the room seeking some reaction to the name and saw none.  “You do remember Leo Frank in Georgia?” 

* * *

Abraham went on to explain Leo Frank was a factory superintendent who was lynched by a mob in Merietta, Georgia, in 1915.  National newspapers attributed his murder to antisemitism and resulted in many well-established Jews realizing regardless of their status, to many they were just a Jews. 

Leo Frank lynched by a mob outside Atlanta, Georgia

But Abraham's desire for justice went deeper.

* * *

Abraham let out a sigh and clasped his fingers together.  “Gentlemen, I do not take anyone’s rights for granted and I will defend them wherever and whenever they are in danger.  What it amounts to is this: if I allow your rights to be violated, I have lost mine also.  Believe me, if certain powers in America get away with ignoring the rights of immigrants, it won't be long before they come after Jews.  All Jews, no matter their station.  This is not just your fight, it's also mine.”

* **

Memorial to Leo Frank

In the last section of this scene, I closed with dialogue from my first book, Ikons: Saint Nicholas the Wonder Worker, when Abraham and Massey first met.

* * *

Massey stopped twisting his cap and glanced down at it.  “Do you believe we have a good case?”

Abraham smiled at Massey and recalled a similar question Massey had asked many years ago.  “Yes, thanks to your little chat with the sheriff, I do,” Abraham answered.  “A very good case indeed.”

* * *

In researching the lynching of Leo Frank, I wondered how such an event could have taken place and if it could happen today.  I believe the same circumstances occur daily.  A lynch mob provides one with anonymity and the same anonymity exists on social media.  While the targets of hatred my not be strung up from a tree, the internet mob has no qualms about destroying their reputations and livelihood.  Woe be those who stray beyond the boundary of accepted behavior, regardless of which side of boundary the mob may reside.

My Inner Child

My two characters, Stepha and his little brother Vanya (In real life my father Stefan and uncle John), occur in all three of my novels.  I had no trouble developing both their personas since I sculpted theirs on mine.  Stepha's goal was acceptance by the village's older boys, while Vanya wanted nothing more than to win the admiration of his big brother.

Growing up in Rockdale in the late 1940's and early 50's, I experienced both boys' goals.

I was the youngest of the gang of children that caused havoc in my little village and I volunteered for any low level job that would earned me praise.  If it meant being a lookout for orchard raiders or the all-time catcher* in pickup baseball games, I would do it.  In the summer of 1949, my only claim to fame was being flattened at home plate without dropping the ball.  In Slogans: Our Children, Our Future, Stepha was desperate to be a member of the Brati gang as illustrated in this excerpt. 

* * *

Maksim fingered his budding chin hairs and pondered his most important decision of the day.  What would the great Lenin do?  Should he trust this youngster with the discovery?  Everyone else who knew was at least three years older than the pesky little sputnik.  To the Brati, as they wanted to be known, the secret should be shared by them―”the brothers”―and not with this little tag-along.  If the wrong ones found out―well that would never do.  True, Stepha was just seven summers and had a family but he was tough, very tough.  He stood up to wolves and kept his word about Old Rosina.  Toughness counted for much to the Brati―perhaps the only thing that really counted.

* * *

Andy, Donna and Me

Stepha's role required dual personalities.  In addition to his role as the youngest gang member, he was also a big brother who had to put up with a younger sibling.  While I didn't have a little brother, I did have a little sister, Donna.  As can seen in the above picture, Donna wasn't one to shy away from the rough and tumble world of boys.  But, like Vanya, she could be a problem and ditching her was often my main goal. 

* * *

“No.  You're too little,” Stepha said and pushed his brother away.

“You said if I went to school, I could go with you everywhere.”  Vanya screwed up his face.  “You lied.  I'll tell.”

Stepha bared his teeth and pulled Vanya to his face.  “You're not going.  And you better not tell, you little rat.  If you do…”  Stepha slid his finger across his throat.  “Just like Chornik, Vanya.  Just like Chornik.”

* * *

While I relied primarily on the my memory of boyhood interactions, I was also fortunate enough to have a pair of grandsons approximately the age of my characters.  The two provided me with real incidents on how Stepha and Vanya's roles may have played out.  

* * *

As always Stepha led and Vanya stayed a respectable two paces behind.  In a different lifetime they may have walked side-by-side, but years of war, exile and life without a father had made Stepha the man of the family and he was not about to relinquish his exalted role.  He was the man and Vanya was the child and as Glorious Chairman often stated, “That was that.”

 * * *

 

Stefa and his Great-Grandson

Vanya and his Great-Grandnephew

The two cousins' relationship fluctuated between best friends and thinly veiled tolerance echoing the relationship I attributed to their bygone male relatives. The boys' imagination and exuberance also reflected those from nearly a century ago and verified many of Stepha and Vanya's reactions  to the perils I presented.  In a side note: I could not find a photo of my grandsons without smiles.  It's a much different world today in many ways.

* All-time catcher was a baseball position invented to provide a spot for the player nobody wanted, usually me.  It meant I spent the entire game behind the plate shagging errant curve balls and sliders thrown by inept nine-year and ten-year olds. 

The Lost Children of the Urals

After writing of the Czech Legion, I would be remiss not to mention an obscure historic incident involving a group of children lost in Siberia. As a young, underpaid, yet energetic analyst, I spent many nights in my organization's library pouring over volumes dealing with Russian culture and history.  One of the books that really caught my attention was Floyd Miller's Wild Children of the Urals. 

Floyd Miller's Classic Story

In his book, Miller relates the epic odyssey of nearly a thousand Russian children, who in 1918, boarded trains in Saint Petersburg for their annual excursion to summer camps in Turgoysk, Siberia and destiny.  The children, ranging in age from two to sixteen, were accompanied by several dozen young teachers and medical staff.  As the summer of 1918 progressed and revolution spread throughout their land, the children found themselves cut off from their homes.

Children boarding their train for Turgoysk

Faced with the prospect of hunger and a Siberian winter, the children's counselors organized scavenging parties to obtain food and shelter.  Since Turgoysk is in the Chelyabinsk-Zlatoust region  where my story takes place, I arranged for the lost children to play part a role in Slogans: Our Children, Our Future.

* * *

The oldest could not have been more the twelve and the youngest probably four.  The three boys stood outside Akulina's door asking for food.  “Please, Tetka―Auntie, we are hungry,” the oldest said.  “If you could just spare some bread or perhaps some old beets and cabbage we would be eternally grateful.”  Akulina looked down at their basket and saw a few crusts of bread and wilted vegetables.  “Please, Tetka.  It is not just for us.  We have little sisters who are too weak to beg.  But with your help she will regain her health and the Lord will truly bless you for your compassion.”

* * *

The story of the wild children rates high in the truth is stranger than fiction category, as they become the target of an American Red Cross worker named Riley Allen.  Riley located the children and together with the Czech Legion guided them safely to Vladivostok and beyond.  The story of Riley's quest captivated American newspaper readers just as Stanley's search for Livingstone through Africa had enthralled an earlier generation.  It was these emotional news reports that prompted Massey to become involved.

* * *

"A few of the children returned home but the civil war left most stranded.  The camp officials fled leaving about eight hundred children behind.  They were just two to fifteen-years old.”

“So what?  We have problems enough without them.”

“Ah,” Locko replied.  “We may not solve their problem, but they might solve ours.”  Now he had their attention.  “An American went to Russia last fall searching for the children and found them.  The rumors were true.  Now American newspapers are interested in following the actions of this Riley Allen and what they are calling, 'The Wild Children of the Urals.'  I propose we change our name to the Urals' Children Fund.”

* * *

Massey and his fellow expatriates eagerly followed the children's travails as they traveled east across Russia to safety.

The Lost Children head east to Vladivostok

Finally the children reached Vladivostok and were taken by sea to San Francisco. From there the Red Cross proposed to transport them by train to New York. 

Red Cross Ship

Upon hearing the children would be traveling through the Midwest, Massey organized the Rockdale Seven to form a reception to welcome the children's train before it reached Chicago.  He planned to embrace them as he would his own sons.

* * *

Massey foresaw standing alongside the tracks as the train stopped in Joliet.  He would be holding two baskets full of food and well wishes.  They would not just contain his gifts, but from many others in Rockdale.  Sam’s wife volunteered to bake klotchie and potisa; Marko planned buying tarts from Smith's bakery, and Massey would fill the remainder with fresh fruit and sweets.  Massey's baskets, however, were not intended for just anyone.  Surely among the hundreds there were two brothers the same age as Stefan and Ivan.  Massey would search the railcars and find two boys leaning out their windows and reaching for him with outstretched arms.  Massey would smile, give them the gifts, chat and be thanked profusely. 

* * *

However, politics and disunity among Russian refugees derailed the Red Cross plan and the children were force to continue by sea to New York and eventually Russia.

Russian boys arriving in Helsinki

* * *

Following the children’s departure from New York, Massey's baskets remained leaning against the wall for several weeks.  They, like his dreams of seeing his boys, would remain empty.

* * *

Two and a half years after leaving their Saint Petersburg homes, the children were reunited with their families.  They had circled the globe on foot, train and ship. Unfortunately for many in 1921 Russia, the children's past hardships were but a prelude to what lay ahead. 

The Children's World Circling Journey