We were still living in the country then. The village was small but densely populated. People weren’t rich, they lived average lives, just like everyone else in Soviet times. We survived at the expense of the farm and the city. Children worked from an early age, because they knew that you had to earn a living to get a piece of bread. Everybody got up early in the morning and went to bed late when all the cattle were fed.
I had a neighbor, Maria. She gave birth every year. I don’t know how many kids she had, I lost count. We were used to seeing her with a belly. Her husband was 20 years older than Maria. He never worked, only got by with some handouts from relatives. He believed that his mission was to make children. If God gave it to her, then she had to have it.
Twelve children exactly. There was no farm, vegetable garden, or orchard. Maria asked the locals for fruit and vegetables, hiding behind her pregnancy and concerns about children. The villagers gave both money and food – they felt sorry for the children.
They gave birth to children, but they forgot that they had to be fed. It didn’t bother their parents that the children were hungry. They were confused about their names, too.
My mother died very young. And when I was 18, I was orphaned because my father died in the war. I lived with my elderly grandfather at the time. That evening I was boiling potatoes in a cauldron, and I heard a gentle child’s voice:
– Auntie, do you have anything to eat?
It was Jack, the neighbor’s boy. Naturally I fed him and gave him some milk to give to his brothers and sisters. From then on he started coming to me every day.
After a while Maria was left alone, her husband had died. She had forgotten all about her children, began to go out with men and disappear for days. At least her husband restrained her ardor, but when he died, she went to pieces.
The older children were taken away by their relatives because they were hard-working, and everyone needs help in the village. The little ones were put in an orphanage, as no one wanted to babysit them.
I often visited Jack and delighted him with sweets. On vacations and weekends they let him stay with me. When he turned 18, he moved in with me. He was my son. I had children of my own, but my husband did not mind.
Jack helped me, babysat the kids, always treated us with respect. Now he is 56 years old and I am 74. We are family friends and still keep in close touch.
I feel sorry for the abandoned children. Very much so. If you have the opportunity, make at least one baby happy.
