The Cult in my Grandmother's House

It was the perfect combination of charlatan and academic.

Of course, Grandma was a real find for the Chief. In her turn, as an energetic and educated woman with two kids on her hands, tormented by loneliness and disappointment, exiled to the ends of the earth, where woman is nothing, where to prove the contrary you had to be able to part the clouds with your glance, Grandma tumbled headlong into the collective, like into a rabbit hole.

Everybody needs to feel like somebody. Whoever they are, everybody needs to feel like they belong to something big and important. For my grandma this was the collective.

SICK KIDS

The collective would receive children with various illnesses: psoriasis, neurodermatitis, schizophrenia (including nuclear or process schizophrenia, the type with the worst prognosis and hardest to treat), as well as the children of alcoholics and drug addicts – or as we were told, from “difficult families”. I often heard the adults say we were brought up on the Makarenko system. The prominent Soviet educational theorist Anton Semyonovich Makarenko had always been a great influence on the Chief.

Many years later I found out that nowhere near all the children at the collective were ill or from difficult circumstances. Most of them were there for totally different reasons. Either it had been easy to convince the parents their children were sick, and so increase the flock that way, or the parents themselves were already part of the collective and so brought the whole family along; or sometimes they were even the children of high-ranking officials in the Soviet Union. Children of high-ranking officials and people with connections were welcomed with pleasure as they would provide both financial support and a veneer of legitimacy. Of course, for every child there the parents paid a monthly fee, and many also donated their apartments as accommodation.

Since there’s no such thing as a person without problems, there will always be something for psychosomatic ideology and dogma to latch on to.

Once they’d got so much as a hair on your head, you were lost.

THE WHITE HOUSE

Our clinic was situated in the centre of Dushanbe. Between ourselves we called it the White House. Alcoholics and schizophrenics were treated there. It was a typical single-storey central Asian building of whitewashed adobe, with offices and corridors inside. The offices had tables, chairs and benches, where the patients were examined, and then layered.

The street around the White House was dusty and had wooden benches, under which I sometimes found stray sweet wrappers which I loved to smell and keep in my pocket.

I don’t remember anything else about the White House – I was too young then.

EDUCATIONAL PSYCHOLOGISTS

The people in the white coats were respectfully known as educational psychologists, always by their first name and patronymic. Yulia Viktorovna, Natalya Yevgenyevna, Nadezhda Yurevna, Vladimir Vladimirovich and others (including Stolbun himself): none of them had a psychological or medical, let alone educational background. The only more or less constant member of the group who had a medical education was Stolbun’s wife, Valentina Pavlovna Streltsova. She preferred to live in comfort, so I personally saw her only rarely.

I don’t want to exaggerate the quality and level of Soviet education in the fields of education, psychology and psychiatry, because those fields were generally charlatans and were far removed from science. An absence of formal education in these fields could even have been an advantage. It could have been… but in this case it wasn’t.

SPEECHES AND FAINTING

These speeches were held all the time and at any time, even in the middle of the night. This was real brainwashing. The familiar cry could come at any time: “Come on everyone” and you’d have to get up and follow everyone, like zombies, to a speech. The Chief would talk for many hours at a time, gesticulating in the centre of the circle that formed around him, and scratching his shaggy head. His shoulders were always white with dandruff. You weren’t allowed to lie down or even sit. You couldn’t interrupt him or ask questions. We had to maintain absolute silence, and listen reverently.

While talking, the Chief would look everyone in the eyes in turn, as if evaluating the impact of his words, whether people were changing under their action. Periodically he would call someone or other into the circle to be discussed.

There were times during these interminable speeches that people fainted from tiredness or hunger. This was considered a success: it meant the person had truly comprehended the Chief’s point. It meant their level of aggression had fallen and they had readjusted and relaxed to such an extent that they had lost consciousness. A truly logical chain of thought!

During these speeches I often dreamed of feigning a faint because I was so tired of standing. It was terribly boring and I wanted to do something different.

And of course I did not understand much of what was said, apart from that we were terribly sick and if we had not got ourselves into the collective then we would have died. Everything outside the collective was dangerous and corroded. There were so many enemies on the outside who wanted to harm us and even disband us, and so we had to live as if in a wartime bunker, in the trenches, and be very suspicious of outsiders. The Chief often called our enemies “Zionists”.

Later on I realised that our main enemy was not Zionists, but offical Soviet medicine, which did not recognise our methods and treatments. The collective’s activities were actually banned. Later a criminal case was brought against the Chief for child abuse.

Being a Jew himself, the Chief exhibited admirable obstinacy over many years on the issue of the Zionists who supposedly wanted to humiliate us. To this day I still don’t understand why Zionists would want to humilate Jews. Was he just paranoid? My childish imagination drew the most outlandish and terrifying pictures of the Zionists who were supposedly chasing us. I imagined them with faces twisted with hate, gnashing teeth and long twisted hands with claws, reaching out to grab me and drag me to their fearful lair, where they would drink my warm child’s blood or do something even worse, which I couldn’t quite imagine.

The Chief devoted a large part of his interminable monologues to the theme of relations between men and women. He said they should be clean, “without smut”, but that all of us had only smutty relationships. Me personally he called a whore. So to the words slut and prostitute I added another new word: whore. I had only just turned eight.

Everyone in the collective worshipped the Chief. He became like a God to me too. My parents had gone and I had no one else to worship.

Grandma and uncle acted like we were total strangers, so I was afraid to even approach them.

AUNT KATYA

In general you weren’t allowed to call the adults auntie and uncle; only by full name and patronymic. But I really felt like calling Ekaterina Viktorovna Aunt Katya. She was like family to me. She was calm, kind, clever and beautiful. She cared about me and talked to me like a human. She didn’t treat me like another adult (all the others did, it was considered normal), but like the child I was. This was why I did my homework with her and liked it. She helped me learn a lot of different poems by heart: poems by Alexander Pushkin, Agniya Barto, Irina Tokmakova and many others. To this day I can hear the perky couplets in my head that Aunt Katya and I would recite together:

Buy an onion, a green onion,

A potato and a carrot!

Buy them for our little girl,

Even though she’s a little minx!

Once we went camping by the mountain river Varzob. It was early spring, all around there were almond trees blooming and flocks grazing. I couldn’t help trying a sheep dropping, because it looked like someone had been scattering chocolates about. Aunt Katya taught me not to lean against the trees in spring: it’s very dangerous because scorpions live under the bark and spring is their mating season so they are extra poisonous and prone to stinging.

Aunt Katya often read aloud to me. Once, after that camping trip, in the collective, she got out a big art book, sat me down beside her and, moving her finger over the sculptures in the illustrations, started to tell me about gods and goddesses, retelling the greek myths. She traced the images of nude bodies with her finger, saying all the while, “Look, how beautiful, look at these lines, isn’t that lovely…”

The revered geneticist Vladimir Pavlovich Efroimson wrote that a child’s personality forms under the influence of impressions, so that what has a big effect in a person’s childhood can largely define their life. I remember those moments spent with Aunt Katya very well. For my whole life, whenever I’ve come across something from antiquity, I’ve remembered what she smelled like and the light that came off her. And every time in my head I answer her: “Truly beautiful”.

But my happiness did not last long. Aunt Katya threw herself out the window. I didn’t see it; I don’t remember where I was. She simply disappeared somewhere, and then I was taken to visit her in hospital. The fact I was taken to visit her was a surprisingly humane act, because usually problems were hushed up and hidden, and no one would ever find out the truth if it didn’t fit the doctrine.

Aunt Katya survived, but had badly damaged her neck, and there was something wrong with her jaw: you could see the scar. Someone told me later that during her fall she had grabbed the vine on the second floor, which had saved her. I also found out later that she had been pregnant but as a result of the fall had lost the baby.

After that Aunt Katya disappeared from my life. She left the collective for ever, and for years the Chief only mentioned her in his speeches, calling her a prostitute and an enemy. I came to the conclusion they had had a row, but I never believed she was a bad person. There was another sceptical rumour going around saying she had become a simple tram driver, but I never understood that. We had always been taught that normal, simple, working class jobs were noble, so why were they so scathing about Aunt Katya going to work on a tram? What was shameful about it?

MY NAME

In this large group of people I was now totally alone. Over the six years in the cult I practically forgot my own name. Besides Aunt Katya, no one called me by name or only on those rare occasions when for some incomprehensible reason I suddenly became “good”, “healthy” or otherwise came into grace. Normally the adults either called me by my surname or came up with various strange nicknames. This sounded jovial, sometimes almost affectionate, but I always detected some kind of ironic derision. We children, copying the adults, also often addressed each other not by name but by various teasing epithets.

If by chance I ever heard my name, Ania, I always froze because it was so unusual. Every time I wondered what had happened, why was I suddenly Ania? Not filth, slut, arse, Chedia, Chedipops, pseudointelligentsia, sicko, evil bastard, filthy beast, or any of the things I usually got called, but Ania.

This is how children completely lose their identity. Such seemingly trivial instances soon build up and through them children lose their pride in themselves and in their name, roots, and family. They lose their pride and that means also their accountability.

MY FIRST AND LAST FRIEND

Our apartment on Lakhuti had become a commune, and more and more new children were brought there. They were from ages about 5 to 16 and were very diverse. I was never close to any of them, but I do remember one very well.

One day a boy came to us, about 12 years old. We became friends. Then I got my first slap in the face – a baptism of fire into adult life. I was told that I was definitely a whore, that I was perverting the boy, that I would drag him under the table and fuck him there.

Swearing was always encouraged: it was said to be the language of working folk, not “pseudointellectuals”.

I was the centre of long public speeches of a very harsh tone. Now I can say with full accountability that sexual awareness only appeared in me many years later, when I was approaching 20; back then I didn’t even understand the meaning of the obscene words. I fell into disgrace, and I was hunted like an animal by everyone, young and old.

I was totally shunned and treated like a slave. I prostrated myself and tried with all my might to “improve”.

I had no choice. Grandma was totally on their side. Mum and dad were far away and also very sick (so I was told); I couldn’t go back to them until they got better, otherwise I’d die.

There was also grandpa. But he had categorically refused to entertain the ideas of the collective, so I was told he was psychologically deficient and couldn’t be trusted. To be honest, I had always doubted there was anything wrong with grandpa. But I did believe what they said about my parents. After all, it was them who had put me there and never came back for me.

Since one of my first attachments was curtailed so crudely, I lost the desire to get close to anyone.

~

“Out of 10, how much anger do you have?”

“9”

“And protest?”

“9”

“Very good. Let’s cure you.”

HOW I WAS CONVINCED I WAS HALLUCINATING AND HEARING VOICES

Besides questions asking me to rate my anger and aggression out of 10, the educational psychologists who tried to cure me (which they did constantly), also asked about hallucinations and voices. I usually answered somewhere between 7 and 10 before the treatment, and after, when they did another test to observe the results, of course I gave ratings that were 2-3 points lower. I don’t remember ever being able to bring myself to say that I had no aggression whatsoever.

One of the most important components of the Chief’s teachings was the conviction that all mentally ill people definitely have visual and auditory hallucinations. I never fully knew what that meant, but since they always asked, I agreed. When they asked me to describe them, I never knew what to say. For visual hallucinations, I used my imagination. For voices, I said what sounds I actually heard, which of course were real. I remember really wanting some hallucinations, since that was what they expected of me. I listened to myself specially, but to my disappointment there was nothing there to delight the adults in white coats.

MONEY

Our parents sent money for living expenses, 60 rubles per month per child. Our parents also sent clothes. But the lion’s share of the money was not spent on feeding us or providing for us, but on something else entirely. There was no doubt that the Chief and a few other adults were significantly better fed than us. But they did it by stealing.

They said we were all equal in our fight for a bright future, that regardless of age we were all making an equal sacrifice, denying ourselves everything and working tirelessly. But in actual fact, those closer to the Chief got the choicest and tastiest morsels. This was not even considered shameful; on the contrary, we all thought it was right. Truly, if someone managed to get close to the healthiest person on earth (which the Chief was, without doubt), then it couldn’t be a coincidence. Those people deserve more. They must have good thoughts and the right attitude.

HOW SCARED WE WERE OF MEDICINE

It wasn’t just the Zionists who were our enemies, it was doctors too. The words “medical”, “pills” and so on were dirty words, almost curses. Nothing except our treatments of layering and psychotherapy (including mechanotherapy, in other words beatings) could help a person. In all the years I spent in the cult, I never once saw a normal doctor. I somehow also avoided the standard annual checkup at school. I know the Chief was terrified of dentists. Nobody to my knowledge ever visited the doctor, not for anything. All the adults had terrible teeth. In some sense it was good that I was a child and so couldn’t go totally to seed.

However, cases requiring medical attention were not all that rare in the commune.

For example, once while our children’s collective was living outside Moscow, I fell sprawling on my back from a swing; my back was so sore I could hardly move. I was taken away immediately on my own to the Chief’s apartment on Kotelnicheskaya embankment, in a prestigious part of Moscow. I stayed there alone for a while with several adults who (as normal) layered me. However, strangely, they did not scold me very harshly for having a sore back. I probably wasn’t up to it.

Once a boy managed to knock a boiling pot off the stove over himself, and he got immediately coated in panthenol as treatment. That medicine was only available nearby by chance, only thanks to the fact that we were living in the centre of Moscow at that time, in one of the parent’s apartments.

Another boy, when we were on the move somewhere, fell and scraped his whole naked torso on the hot metal grate we cooked on.

And once while working in the fields a girl was hit on the hands with a hoe.

One of our male teachers fell between the platform and a moving train, severely damaging his thigh and almost losing his leg.

One of our female teachers was attacked by a trucker who tried to rape her in the cab of his lorry.

And this is just what remains from my childhood memories.

However, to outsiders it must have seemed that we were all absolutely fine, never ill, that nothing ever happened to us and that we were always full of strength, despite our heavy labour and difficult circumstances. In fact, this was the whole point and message of our work: don’t spoil children, don’t raise them as little lords, let them work their arses off, suffer the slings and arrows, temper them in the fire!

But to an intelligent observer it was obvious that we fell sick no less frequently than other people, and maybe even more. It was just that the whole theme of illness was painstakingly hushed up around us. Whenever anyone fell ill they were rapidly quarantined, so rapidly that not even others in the cult noticed. If for some reason they couldn’t be quarantined, they were scolded for their wrong thoughts, bad attitude and behaviour.

People even died like this. As a child I was always surprised that the fact of a person’s death was so quickly glossed over. There was never any public mourning or grief, never anything special or solemn – nothing that should by rights conclude the life of a worthy person, or so it seemed to me. Somehow no one was up to it.

However, when Brezhnev died, we were obliged to grieve. But the death of the Chief’s youngest daughter’s newborn baby was put down to the cold weather. Not to the fact that his mother had wrong thoughts, or that she was a perverted woman, or that she had done something wrong to the baby, but to the fact that there was frost outside: the baby had quite simply and routinely frozen in his pram during a nap. It was the frost that was guilty. The chosen ones are excused everything.

When I was first writing my recollections (at age 23), I declared completely sincerely that, yes, seriously, despite everything, we were never ill. I really believed that. But now, with the years, remembering our life then in more detail, and through talking with other former cult members, I uncovered facts which as a child I had never even known. In fact, as often happens, much was hidden from the children intentionally.

I came to see that it is important to fact-check our childhood impressions.

WHO REMEMBERS THEIR CHILDHOOD IN THE USSR

Here in Switzerland, I know a Russian lady who is surprised every time I mention the USSR with ill will. “But what was so bad about it?” she says, “Soviet people had everything. Even if it wasn’t much, everyone had a roof over their head, free education and medicine, a job, a salary. Everything stable and predictable. Is that not heaven?!”

True, it came out later that in the USSR she had lived in her parents’ apartment, and her dad was in the army, so they were in a very privileged layer of society and had more or less enough. (They were the total opposite of our family, which was headed by an enemy of the people). That aside, her recollections of the Soviet Union are tainted with childish romanticism. Children do not see the complex relationships in social phenomena. We begin to notice and understand them only with years and experience.

This is why it is so important in adulthood to mentally return to our childhood, to reevaluate what happened then. This is why I am writing this book: I want to understand what was not right and how to make sure nothing similar happens again, either with my own children or other people’s.

THEATRE, OR ART THERAPY

There was never enough living space, and still more and more people kept joining the collective. We had to find somewhere to set up and conduct our activities. No one lived in the clinic in the centre of Dushanbe – that was where the adults worked. We lived in various apartments donated by the parents of children in the commune. My grandmother’s apartment was the headquarters, where the management lived.

Besides the speeches, layering and mechanotherapy, we also received other methods of treatment, such as art therapy: the commune had its own amateur drama group. The Chief said that theatre was a powerful psychological corrective agent. By acting on a stage, a person becomes liberated, loses their fear of appearing in public, and learns how to be sincere.

We were invited to appear on stages in the local halls where we rehearsed, and then we went on tour over the whole country. During my early days in the collective we put on Edmond Rostand’s “Cyrano de Bergerac”. By that time we already had lots of people. They came from over the whole Soviet Union: from Moscow, Leningrad, Dmitrov, the Urals, Siberia, and of course many were from Dushanbe.

I really liked the theatre. It was interesting. Sometimes we rehearsed for days on end and simply lived on the stage and in the wings. And we received our treatments too: we were tapped and layered right there on the floor in the wings.

We had a large repertoire: we could perform about 20 different plays.

One time in the assembly hall of one school we were putting on “Dunno in the Sun City”, a story about the loveable children’s character Dunno or Neznaika created by Nikolai Nosov. I was playing Mushka. In the hall sat my parents, who had arrived for a short visit. The Chief was also watching our play. In the flow of a rehearsal he stopped us. He often did that, to start his latest speech, discussing the behaviour of this person or that person.

On this occasion the Chief was disgruntled with me. He spun a long speech, whose point I can’t remember. Then he told my parents to have a word with me. Mum and dad led me into an empty classroom, gave me a long explanation, of which I remember absolutely nothing, then sat me on a chair. Mum twisted my arms behind the chair’s back and held them so I couldn’t free myself, while my dad repeatedly beat me in the face. My nose started bleeding heavily, and my dad just kept hitting me. Later I returned home to the commune without my parents, took off my favourite dress and soaked it in a bath of cold water, but still couldn’t get the blood out. I had to throw it away.

Years later I asked my dad how he could have done such a thing to me. My dad swore he couldn’t remember anything of the sort. I believe him, now. Now I know that sometimes people simply wipe the most hideous things from their memory, because it is just as unbearable to remember as to explain.

~

“How many points would you rate your anger?”

“9”

“And protest?”

“9”

“Very good. Now let’s layer you, to remove the aggression.”

A SLAP IN THE FACE IN CHEBOKSARY

Once in Cheboksary we were appearing on stage at a boarding school. We were putting on “Terem-Teremok”, a popular cartoon of a folk tale. For the whole of my time in the collective I played the frog in that play. On this occasion I had just finished the first scene, and the curtain closed. The Chief flew up to me unexpectedly and slapped me in the face with a wide-flung arm, shouting in my face, “Will you just act normally today, you bastard?! Relax right now and stop getting angry, you beast!” I could hardly come to before the curtain had already opened. With a full hall in front of me I had to continue the play. My cheek was burning like it had been scalded. I quickly took myself in hand and acted the play to the end.