Katya & The Prince of Siam

In midsummer, starting early in the morning, we would go to the common, about twelve versts from Yurov, to pick mushrooms and berries in the forest. Auntie stayed with the baskets of food and the samovar, while we hurried off, exchanging cheerful calls, so that no-one wandered too far and got lost in the huge black woods. By evening whole traploads were filled with delicious mushrooms, fragrant forest raspberries, black-currants and red bilberries. After supper by the camp fire, on the way home I would curl up in the trap and fall asleep. Sometimes a bump in the road awakened me, I’d look up at the stars and fall asleep again – I never slept so well in my life.

During the harvest, after the day’s work, the mowers gathered to eat by the fire, telling tales of mystery and horror, and singing songs about the freedom of the Cossack life. I have also not forgotten the send-off always given to the Tchoomaks, Ukrainian ox-cart drivers, when they were sent to the Crimea for salt. Powerful short-horns drew the carts, whose drivers were selected for their health and strength. Assembled in the village square, they awaited the priest, who would offer prayers for their journey. When he arrived, arrayed in his vestments, they fell on their knees, praying ardently. Then they arose, and the eldest of them, loudly and ceremoniously addressed the crowd, “Farewell gentlemen, farewell one and all!” And this was not the end of it. Dozens of old women would run and kiss the departing travellers with sobs of woeful lamentation as though they were going to their deaths. This also lasted a considerable time.

Finally the elder Tchoomak announced severely, “Let us now be gone!” Removing their caps, they turned towards the church, crossed themselves, and once more bowed to the crowd. The row of carts creaked off in a long line. The older Tchoomaks each took a handful of earth, tied it in a rag, and hung it round their necks, so that if one died on the road, his fellows would put this clod of home-earth with him in his grave.

But alas, the joys of life in Yurov were shadowed by the cruel treatment of the serfs by the steward. Every day there was crude abuse, oaths, slaps and punches in the teeth, causing blood to flow from many mouths.