In Memorium

In Memorium

When I wake up, my contacts were drying out slightly, casting a blurry edge around everything I looked at out the window. Slava's grey Volvo is bouncing around the street, trying to avoid the potholes that loomed up from the asphalt. Potholes in Belarus take on a life of their own, and appear out of nowhere, sometimes forcing people to abandon their cars because they cannot

get out of them.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"Pinsk. We're all going to look for the house that we lived in when we were kids."

"We all" constitutes my husband and his two brothers. And of course me, but I don't really count because I never lived in Pinsk, Minsk or anywhere else in Belarus. The dichotomy between the guys and myself is vast, based primarily on the fact that I understand more Russian than I can speak, which isn't much. This, combined with the fact that I will consume anything put in front of me except shuba, is the only mark against me with my new family. We pull into a parking lot and pile out of the car. Pearl gray clouds are rolling across the sky and the wind is picking up, a sure sign that rain was on the way. The breeze feels good, a vast change from the sticky humidity that had enveloped us for the last 4 hours in the car.

We start walking down the street. We pass a brownish red brick house, whose windows were trimmed with some white brick. The house was beautiful, with only the most minor damage that occurs with the passing of time. There were chipped bricks on the corners, and holes in the bricks, which Alex later told me were bullet holes from WWII. The window sills sagged slightly in the center. But most odd about the house was that it is surrounded by the typical Soviet and post Soviet 9 story apartment buildings on three sides. On the 4th side is a parking lot. It's an altogether strange place for a house.

"So where's your house? I'm really excited to see it."

" We can't remember." This statement is accompanied by the typical laughter. Alex and his brothers are known to do things in a pell-mell, disorganized way when on vacation. Plans are sketchy at best with them.

"Well, what's the address?"

A conversation in Russian ensues, in which I recognize the words for house, I don't know, and what can be roughly translated as "this sucks". Finally my brother in law turns to me and says in English,

"We don't remember. We will know it when we see it. We remember what it looks like."

We begin to walk.

The dichotomy between my husband and his brothers and myself deepens as we assume a pattern. The guys walk in a row, Alex in the middle, about 20 feet ahead of me. I follow behind with the camera, occasionally taking pictures, but more often just staring at everything, trying not to look too much like a tourist, but failing completely. This pattern holds steady, offering certain conveniences for both. Alex and his brothers can chat freely without my interruption, and I can stroll leisurely, which as by nature, I am used to doing.

I am entranced by Pinsk, a city that boasts nothing famous, but leaves a lasting impression on visitors. The weight of history is very heavy here, from the sign exaulting the city's founding in 1097, to soviet era buildings, and the sickle and hammer monuments of communism that is still present in many forms,. Modern cement and asphalt streets run into dirt roads where pre-soviet and soviet era wood houses sit side by side in the shade of chestnut trees and are surrounded by fragrant flower and vegetable gardens. The smell of aging wood wafts through the air as you walk down the street. Pinsk is a fluid city. It's possible to start out in a commercial area, walk one mile and arrive in a residential area, and not remember where the change occurred. It's provincial, but modern, austure, but full of personality.

"Why don't you call you grandmother and ask where she lived", I suggest. After 3 hours the search is fruitless. The clouds have disappeared and the sun reappeared, although the coolness has remained. The breeze still floats through the tress, creating a pleasant whirring sound. Bees dance from flower bushes to tomato plants and back again. I decide that I like Pinsk, even if we can't find the house.

"We don't have her number." Of course they don't. That would violate the Starchenko Principle of Vacation Preparedness.

We continue walking. An hour later, the guys call an old family fiend who also came from Pinsk. He can't remember the name of the street. We cut through a shaded alley between a kindergarten and a soviet era apartment building and emerge on residential street. We pause and then turn left.

We stop in front of a vacannot

plot between 2 houses. We all stand on a row peering over the fence. The lot is filled with weeds but in the back is a pile of wood, indicating that something previously existed on this lot and was torn down. In the corner of the lot, there is an old rusted Volga, a soviet era car, slowly disappearing from the streets of the former Soviet Union. Another conversation in Russian goes on, and I realize that the inability to speak Russian other than the rudimentary basics cuts me off from participation in the event. I silently curse myself for the 1000th time.

There is a Babushka who lives next door that has come to the garden to stare at us. I guess I would stare too if 4 strange people were staring at an empty lot. A conversation ensues, only snatches of it penetrating my mind. "Yes. No. What...house... a little bit. Goodbye" We turn and walk away.

"Was that it? What did the woman say?" These have been the most repeated phrases since arriving in Belarus.

"That wasn't the house." There is relief in Alex's voice but a new sense of tension has shown up in everyone's eyes.

Another hour and a number of phone calls later, including one to his aunt, whose number we surprisingly remember, we still have nothing, but the guys are still determined they will find the house. They remember so much of the city from childhood. Alex occasionally tells me some things. At the river, he and his brothers reminisce about how they played there and Slava fell head first into the river. They remember