Terrorist Bombings

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
George Santayana

The negative side of writing historic fiction is discovering a lot of bad stuff happened in the past.  Even worse is finding outit looks an awful lot like the present.  The more I learn, the more I believe Santayana's proposition did not go far enough.  What I've noticed is those who remember past are also condemned to repeat it.  Case in point, terrorist bombings.  While the present day United States has not fared as badly as Iraq, Afghanistan and parts of Europe, bombings were once prominent in America's landscape.  As my character Massey finds out in this scene from Slogans: Our Children, Our Future, America was not immune.

* * *

Massey sat in Paulie Travica's Barber Shop gripping the pink-tinged newspaper.  The special edition of The National Police Gazette's front page displayed a single morbid illustration.  The intricate pen and ink drawing showed a severed head flung in the air by a massive explosion. 

The National Police Gazette Banner

According to The Gazette, a bomb blast had rocked a quiet residential Washington D. C. neighborhood ripping leaves and limbs from trees, shattering the stoop of a brownstone and scattering chunks of the would-be assassin over half a block. The inhuman device was intended for Attorney General Alexander Palmer and was just one of thirty meant for prominent American leaders and businessmen.  

* * *

Bombers also hit Wall Street.  Borne by a horse-drawn wagon, their explosive devise was powerful enough to cause considerable structural damage and lead to the deaths of 38 people.  Though the real perpetrators were never found, public outrage against Russians immigrants was rampant.

Wall Street Bombing - September 16, 1920

* * *

..., the blame immediately fell on Bolsheviks and the nation called for an immediate response against what was now being heralded as the Red Menace.  One national demagogue suggested sending the Bolsheviks back to Russia in ships of stone with sails of lead.  Then reflecting on his statement added, “Maybe we should just shoot them and save space on the ships.”

* * *

I used this in Slogans by making Massey the target of a local anti-immigrant group.  Like terror bombings of old, lashing out against foreigners is still going on so it was easy to pick up the feelings of those opposed to immigrants.  It was a sad commentary on human nature.

Bombings serve one purpose, to terrorize.  They weaken citizens trust in their government and widen the rift between nations and people.  While bombs and the method of transportation has evolved from black powder and horse-drawn wagons to C4 and trucks, the aim remains the same -- the destruction of the status quo.

Car Bombing in the Middle East - 2017

If my addition to Santayana's proposition is correct, we can expect history to keep repeating itself.

What's In A Name

A constant comment, or rather criticism, of my work is the difficulty of pronouncing and remembering my characters' names.  Since my stories presented the Russian and Russian-American experience, it was difficult to provide those unfamiliar with the Slavic language with easily identifiable monikers. 

Ikons

In my first novel, Ikons: Saint Nicholas the Wonder Worker, the majority of the characters bear the names of my family and their friends.  When I needed Belarus surnames to populate Hutava, I used the Minsk phone book and members of Stankovo's military detachment.  The name of the chief of Hutava's Mir, Mayor Voltaic, was appropriated from the Russian word for giant.  In my later novels I used this method to create names for many of my characters.

Banners

I can sympathize with readers of Banners: For God, Tasr and Russia.  There are an awful lot of characters.  I lifted quite a few names for my major characters from the state museum in Minsk: famous Russian poets, leaders and military heroes.  For minor characters I made up whimsical names based on Russian nouns and adjectives.  For instance, Feldfebel (First Sargent) Zortun.

* * *

Feldfebel Zartun was huge.  So huge that Sergei was almost eye level with the seated sergeant.  But it was not the sergeant’s height that upset Sergei―it was his weight.  To call the man fat would have been kind.  It was obvious the sergeant had not earned his rank through forced marches or horseback patrols.  Also, Sergei thought, the sergeant’s neatly trimmed mutton chops framing his bloated face might look fine on a parade field or in army headquarters, but they would draw more fleas than a stray koshka if the man ever left the post.  This Sergei knew from sad experience.

* * *

Zurtun's family name was derived from the Russian word for joke.  Originally,  I planned to use him for comic relief, but he turned out to anything but.  Another play on words was Sergei's commanding officer in Pervosk Fortress, Polkovnik (Colonel) Rygalov.  His last name was Russian for "belch" and I gave the poor guy an unhealthy dose of stomach problems.

Enlisted ranks were filled with soldiers who last names in Russian described their their physical and mental bearing, such as Gunner, Screamer, Lanky, and Grief.  Unfortunately, this did not help the pronunciation and memory problem, but it kept me smiling.

It was also in Banners that I introduced the leaders of the Old Believers as the twelve apostles and used Russian equivalents for their Biblical names. 

Slogans

Slogans: Our Children, Our Future contained many of the characters from the first two books.  Since Slogans dealt two young boys, Stepha and Vanya, the characters surrounding them were children.  For the children's names I used their diminutives: Kolya, Pasha, Valki, etc. Later, when Stepha and Vanya join a gang of Polish urchins, I used street names to identify them.  Stepha and Vanya tried to adopt street names to make them seem tougher.

* * *

After both lowered their weapons, the boy fronted them.  “They call me Ryzhy, because of this,” he said taking off his cap revealing a shock of flaming red hair.  “What cha called?”

Stepha was about to blurt out his name when he remembered Kolya's advice:  Don't use your real name or they'll think you're soft.  Call yourself something fierce.  “I’m called Medved―Bear,” Stepha said.  “And this is my brother, er, Volk―Wolf.”

* * *

Other gang members assumed names reflecting their status or physical qualities.

* * *

The brothers stood in the center of a dank basement, lit by four flickering candles.  Ryzhy's gang had circled them, arms folded, faces grim.  There was Krivoy, with just one good eye; Kosoy, whose eyes were crossed; Riaboy, with a face pot marked by disease; and Starik, who looked like a frail old man.  There also were two girls identified as Monashka, the nun, and Lebed, the swan. 

 * * *

Will this background information help my readers if they read this post?  Probably not, but at least they might be impressed by the genesis of those hard to pronounce and easy to forget names.

Your Character's Perceptions

In the July/August 2017 issue of Writer's Digest, author Jane K. Cleland presented an article entitled "The Perception Gap."  After explaining how writers can use their character's perception of events and people to "propel their plot," Ms Cleland challenged the reader to find examples of correct and incorrect perceptions in their work.  I chose three examples from my novels in which my character made a judgement based on their personal experience.  In two cases, their initial gut reaction, though well founded, were incorrect.

Massey

On Massey's first trip across the Atlantic, he tried to follow the suggestion given to him by seasoned ocean travelers, "Take the lower bunk."  His attempt to follow the advice led to a confrontation and friendship.  The following excerpt from Ikons: Saint Nicholas the Wonder Worker, tells of his initial encounter with Marko and how perception based on visual clues can lead to false assumptions.

* * *

Spying an empty lower bunk Massey made straight for it and threw his belongings on the mattress just ahead of a badly worn carpetbag and bedroll belonging to another.

"Moy," said Massey staking his claim.

"Ta moye," came the equally irrefutable retort in Polish. 

* * *

Steerage Sleeping Quarters

A standoff ensued and Massey, based on the man's body language, was sure the Pole meant to fight for possession of the bunk and Massey was ready to oblige.  However, it turned out Massey's assessment of the situation was incorrect.

* * *

Massey stood his ground as the Pole's right hand formed a fist.  Just when blows seemed inevitable, the Pole's face formed a full smile.  He then moved back a step and put out his left hand, palm up.  Slowly he pounded his fist, meaty side down, into his open palm three times.   Once more the Pole repeated his action and this time Massey recognized the child's game of "rock, paper, scissors."  Massey smiled and struck his palm three times.  Massey's rock broke Marko Kozlowski's scissors, earning Massey the lower bunk and two life long friends.

* * *

Sergei

Sergei honed his fighting skills as an infantry officer on the Turkish frontier.  Much later as a civilian volunteer, he witnessed the defeat of the Russian Third Army at the hands of the Germans.  In this scene from Banners: For God, Tsar and Russia, Sergei called upon his previous wartime experience to stem the tide of retreat and hold the line.

* * *

Words.  There are moments in a conflict when one man with words has the power to change history.  If he uses the right words at the right time, beaten men will rally and the rush of defeat will be stemmed.  Sometimes the words must implore the men, beg them to do their duty.  Other times, the words must chastise and humiliate them into standing their ground.  By the time Sergei reached the road crowded with retreating men, he was in no mood to beg.

* * *

Russian Third Army In Retreat

Sergei searched for the soldiers he needed by noting their mannerisms.

* * *

Finally, the men he awaited appeared.

Their company formation was ragged, but their heads were high and they still held their weapons and equipment.  “May God be praised,” Sergei mouthed when he looked into their eyes.  For the first time in days he saw not fear, but betrayal. 

* * *

Based on his correct assessment, Sergei was able to convince these men to reform the defensive line until precious artillery to be saved.  It was also during this scene that Sergei had his perception of a previous character completely reversed.

Stepha

Ten year-old Stepha and his nine year old brother had run away from the displaced persons' camp in search of their father.  Armed only with childish cunning and advice from older village boys, they have so far avoided trouble.  However, in this scene from Slogans: Our Children, Our Future, they believe their luck may have run out.

Young toughs

* * *

“Hey, kid.”

Stepha dropped his end of Akulina's no-touch box and spun around.  Advancing toward him was an older boy almost as disheveled as he.  Glancing to his sides, Stepha saw no place to hide and escaping with their treasures was out of the question.  There remained only one option.  “Get ready.” Stepha instructed Vanya and both pulled out knives and took up a defensive stance.

* * *

The older boy was much more street-wise than Stepha and immediately sized up the situation.

* * *

The boy continued coming, finally stopping seven paces away.  “You're from the camp, ain't cha,” he said ignoring the younger boys' bravado.

Stepha shook his head.

“Don't lie.  Only camp kids wear them kinds of clothes.  Can spot cha at a thousand paces.”

* * *

The older boy introduced himself and offered to take the two brothers into their "gang." At first Sepha was skeptical, but finally relented.  It turned out the gang had a use for the brothers talents.

* * *

A shudder ran through Stepha as he recalled another of Kolya's warnings.  One about gangs of young thugs who lured unsuspecting children into their dens and robbed them.

“So what ya say?  Want to join our gang?” Ryzhy asked.

Stepha and Vanya eyed each other and felt their stomachs rumble.  “Da,” Stepha said, “we'll join, but nobody better touch our stuff.”

* * *

I hope Jane K. Cleland agrees with my interpretation of her article.  In any case, in your writings keep in mind that often your character's perception may or may not be reality.

Climate Change

A century ago, world concern dwelt on many of the same topics that trouble us today.  War, immigration and terrorism were splashed across yesterday's newspapers. While climate change worries were not as widespread as today, there was ampprehension.  Following the hostilities in 1918, the world suffered through the coldest winters on record and my characters in Siberia felt the effects.

Ohio weather follows no pattern

I introduced the subject of climate change in the first half of my novel Slogans: Our Children Our Future.  Just like the present, my characters offered diverse and conflicting theories on the cause of the sudden dip in temperatures.  I tried not to take a stand on the cause of climatic fluctuation, but offered several scenarios that people of that period may have put forward, sometimes in a humorous manner.

The Ohio River near Paducah, Kentucky - 1918

The Old Believer Theory

Simon Petr, leader of the Old Believers, placed the blame for weather conditions squarely on the shoulders of the village's Polish Catholics.

* * *

It was the coldest February in memory.  During the day tree limbs burst like rifle shots and at night the stars whispered their deadly song.  Simon Petr greeted the phenomena by again donning sackcloth and parading through Unkurda announcing yet another sign of End Time. He attributed the temperature's plunge to divine wrath.  “Tis,” he proclaimed in a deep, Biblical tone, “more of God's displeasure with the unbelievers' Christmas Tide and the daily blasphemy of the Catholics.” 

* * * 

The Ohio River frozen over - 1918

The Orthodox Theory

The followers of the Orthodox religion blamed the cold on Red and White atrocities.

* * *

The Orthodox believed the reasons for God's punishment were legion.  The Tsar and his family, “may God have mercy on their souls,” had been slaughtered, churches defiled, uncountable innocent men hanged, women outraged and children starved.

* * *

Armored Czech Legion Train - 1918

The Catholic Theory

Unlike the other religions, the Catholics did not single out one group, but laid the blame at the feet of mankind.

* * *

Even the Catholics agreed the cold was God's doing, though they did not point an accusing finger.  The depths of man's sins they said, were vast beyond forgiveness.  However, instead of sending down fire and brimstone like He had on Sodom and Gomorrah, The Almighty was sending down ice and snow.  

* * *

 

The Front

The Freethinkers

Those who chose reason over religion found the source of their misery in scientific facts.

* * *

“God's wrath?  Ridiculous,” the freethinkers of the village responded.  “We may as well wear animal hides and sacrifice virgins like our prehistoric ancestors.  True, man is responsible for the horrid weather but not by sinning.”  Their explanation was scientific.  It was the war.  The smoke and dust from tens of thousands of cannons and uncounted burning farms, villages and cities had clouded the sky and was shielding the sun's warmth.

* * *

I couldn't find a suitable climate change cartoon online, so I created my own.

Original by Me

Baba Yaga

Baba Yaga is a character from Eastern European fold lore.  She is an evil crone embodying the worst evils of the forests and marshes of Ukraine and Belarus and appears in all three of my novels, serving a different role in each. 

Ikons

In Ikons: Saint Nicholas the Wonder Worker, Baba Yaga represents the independent spirit of the Belarus inhabitants of the village of Hutava centered in the Pripet Marches.  

Baba Yaga

* * *

As each succeeding invasion washed over the Slavic lands the population of the marsh dwellers increased.  Faced with the terrifying choice of death, enslavement, or flight many Slavs chose flight into the Pripet.  The Pripet's inhospitable environment was refuge for the fugitives and death to the unwary.  Even Vikings and Mongols trembled at the thought of the baba yagi, the ravaging marsh demons that were said to rip the flesh from invading armies leaving only stacks of dried bones.

In the marsh the fugitives remained, built their villages and raised families in a place safe from all things, but nature.  Unconquered and resistive, future generations would never know the yoke of the Tatar or the Mongol, or the whip of the Pole.  In time the inhabitants believed it was they, not the baba yagi that kept the invaders at bay.  They, so the new legends would go, were the marsh demons of the Pripet. 

* * *

Banners

In my second novel Banners: For God, Tsar and Russia, Baba Yaga became the boggeyman.  Kataya used the myth of Baba Yaga to terrify her young nephews, Stepha and Vanya.  In this scene I show the effects of Teta Kataya's stories on the two boys.

Stefa's vision of Baba Yaga

* * *

Boris looked with dismay at Stepha.  His grandson had removed his head wrapping and defiantly stood between Ultia and Vanya.  Suddenly Stepha’s lip began to quiver and tears rolled down his eyes.  “I will not let Baba-Yaga eat Vanya,” cried Stepha.  “The witch cannot have him.”

 
Boris grabbed Stepha and held him.  “How dare you speak to this kind woman like that.  She is a good woman, not Baba-Yaga.  Where do you get these ideas?”  No sooner did Boris ask the question than he knew the answer.  A look of disdain came over his face and he turned toward Kataya.   

“Haven’t these little ones suffered enough without more of your stories?”

* * *

Slogans

In my third novel, Slogans" Our Children, Our Future,   Baba Yaga, serves several different roles.  In the first she characterizes the old woman to whom eight-year-old Stepha delivers cheese and butter.  His first encounter with the woman does not go well.

Baba Yaga's hut on fowl legs

* * *

Stepha parked his cart at the end of the weed-choked lane and started up the path to Rosina's hut with a milk jug and cheese box.  He could still vividly recall the first time his mother had taken him to Rosina's and how he had screamed because he was sure it would be his last day on earth.  He was positive Rosina's hut would rise up on chicken legs, chase him and eat him.  But that was when he was little and didn’t understand.  Now he knew the giant bones lining the pathway were from beasts that had died many, many years ago and were there to frighten evil men, not little boys.  Even the immense tusks forming the arch before Rosina's hut now inspired awe instead of terror. 

* **

Rosina's physical characters gave reason for Stepha to fear her.  It also gave her a cover for the dangerous tasks she would take on.

* * *

Nice is not a word usually used to describe Rosina Ashtakova.  Twenty-five years ago it was true, but now Rosina's appearance was truly that of a baba yaga.  A self-exiled crone, Rosina lived in the forest several versti outside Unkurda.  Her widow's black garb covered a dowager's hump right in keeping with the traditional image of baba yaga.  Add a nose flattened by a prison guard's baton and Rosina was every child's nightmare.  In her prime, however, she was anything but.

* * *

I also used the legend of Baba Yaga to illustrate Akulina's position in the Siberian village.  In this exchange between Akulina and Ultia, the older woman explains why the villagers fear Akulina.  Akulina goes on to explain away her gift, but later admits to experiencing unexplainable events.

* * *

Akulina set the cup down and wiped her hands on her apron.  “I am not peering into God's world, Ultia.  I'm just thinking and the leaves help me concentrate.”

Ultia approached the table and stood beside Akulina.  “Thinking?  Some sayest otherwise.  Some sayest thou art in league with the devil.  Some sayest,” Ultia bent toward Akulina's ear and whispered, “thou art baba yaga.”

“Baba yaga?”  Akulina shook her head, laughed and blessed herself.  “Nyet, Ultia Yauhoraka, I can assure you I'm no baba yaga.  If I had magical powers, do you think I’d be happy toiling here in Unkurda?  I would be living in Moscow or Petrograd selling love-potions to nobles.  No, I am what you see, a simple woman.”  Akulina pointed to the chair next her.  “Sit Ultia Yauhoraka and give me your hand.”

* * *

Later in their discourse, Akulina admits to seemingly psychic powers.

* * *

“So, thou dost see the future.”

“The future is there for everyone to see, Ultia Yauhoraka.”  Akulina choked back her tears.  “Perhaps I'm just foolish enough to look."

* * * 

Baba Yaga and Me

Anyone who has followed my dispatches from the writing front, knows there are parallels in Stepha's and my experiences.  So it is with Baba Yaga.  My Baba Yaga was an old women who lived in a second floor apartment off Jefferson street in Joliet.  Her striking feature was her nose, she had none.  Instead, there was a liver-colored gap between her eyes and two holes for nostrils.  

She would lean out her apartment window and call out to us as we passed by.  "Boys," she yelled in a pronounced nasal tone, "can you help me."  The first time we stopped, we stared at her, then each other.  "Please," she pleaded.

Overcoming our fear we stood beneath her window and nodded.  From that day on, whenever we walked by she called out and lowed a basket with a shopping list and a quarter.  Sometimes she sent us to the bakery and others to the pharmacy.  There was no money other than the quarter.  The shop owners recognized her list, gave us the goods and we returned it to her basket.  She always gave us a quarter, no matter how many of us appeared.  Then one day her window was shut, not to open again.  We never did learn the fate of our Baba Yaga.

Coming of age with a hack, hack, cough, cough.

For generations, a boy's big step into manhood was the cigarette.  It was the time to show the other guys you were no longer a baby.  My big leap took place at the ripe old age of eight in a fort we had constructed in the woods near Joliet's West Park. 

As kids back in late forties, our main source of income was the returnable bottle.  Empty twelve-ounce pop and beer bottles fetched two cents each, and a prized quart bottle brought in a whole nickle.  It usually didn't take more than a few days of scrounging byways and alleyways to come up with the necessary currency for smokes.

Each bottle was worth two cents

Our goal was to collect enough money for a pack of Marvels.  Marvels was not great tasting cigarette, but it was cheap.  For eight bottles we could get a pack, plus a book of matches.  The grocery store clerk usually looked the other way when a handful of pre-pubs entered, plopped down their coins and nonchalantly ordered a pack.  If the clerk hesitated, a deep-throated, "They're for my old man," usually sealed the deal.

Cheap, but effective

We were wise enough to realize we would never get past our mothers with breaths reeking of tobacco, so we also purchased a box of Sen-Sen mints.  To our young minds, the licorice scented bits would cover any suspected mischief .  They didn't.

Didn't fool a mother's nose

In my novel  Slogans: Our Children, Our Future, I was not content to have my young protagonist, Stepha, just prove himself against wolves, bullies, and marsh witches.  I decided to have him take up smoking to show his mettle.  Of course, I used my own experience to describe this particular venture into manhood.  Like all boys his age, Stepha never admitted to being a novice.  No matter what, he was not going to let the older boys deem him unworthy.

***

There was no turning back.  Stepha accepted Kolya's lit cigarette and slowly brought it towards his lips.

“You've done this before, right?” Kolya asked.  “I didn't swipe these from Yakov just so you waste 'em.”

* * *

In his mind, Stepha considered himself a seasoned veteran.

* * * 

Stepha nodded and hoped a real cigarette wasn't too different from the twigs he pretended to smoke, allowing his wintry breath to drift away like Maksim's scented clouds.

* * *

Young Russian orphans share a smoke to ward off hunger

I wrote Stepha's reaction to his first cigarette just as I remembered mine.

* * *

After the sixth puff, Stepha began felt heady and leaned against the wall, relishing the feel of cold stone.

Tolya peered into Stepha's face and grimaced.  “You don't look so good, kid.  You better sit down before you fall over.”

Gingerly, Stepha lowered himself onto the snow, dropped his head against his knees and desperately gulped for clean air.

“That's the same thing that happened to me when I first smoked Turkish,” said a rapidly fading voice.

“Ah crap, he's passing out, just like ...” were the last words Stepha heard.

* * *

In a later chapter I used smoking to show Stepha believed he was ready to assume the mantel of manhood and rebel against his mother.  In this scene, Stepha acts out against Akulina for the first time.

* * *

Akulina's face reddened and her jaw tightened as another small blade pierced her heart.  “Oh, now my Stepha thinks he's a man,” she said and rose just a tad taller to look down into her son's eyes.  “Such a big shot you are that you think you can smoke and lie to your mother.  Hah.  Next you'll have me to call you Stefan Mataovich and be addressed as thou.”
 
Yes I would, Stepha wanted to say.  He also wanted to say he was a man because he worked like a man.  He sharpened tools, moved rocks, plowed the field, sowed the seeds, and sweated and ached just like Daduska.  Maybe his arms didn't have muscles as big as Kolya's, but he could flex his forearms and biceps and wrestle down Vanya or Oleg with ease.  And if he sat with the men after a long day and enjoyed sharing a cigarette and using course language, what of it?  But he didn't utter those words.  Instead he spun around and stormed out, leaving his thoughts hanging in the air.

* * *

Stepha was now a man

It's hard to believe in today's anti-smoking world that tobacco's haze once was prevalent everywhere.  For this reason I chose the cigarette as a prop in many of my novels' scenes.  After all, they are historic fiction novels and that's the way it was.  Same planet, different world.

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