Survuvers Story

Main Characters: "Baby - Main character, female, in the early childhood of age 1 to 3, white, dark brown hair, bob cut. always serious, restless and full of energy" "Girl - Main character as a girl of age 4 to 7 pre-school, white, dark brown hair in two long braids, still serious, mimicking adults, seeking for new experience, curious." "School-Girl - Main character as a school girl of age 7 to 11, white, dark brown hair in two long braids, serious and too adult for her age, long and skinny, seeking sensations, scatterbrained." "Grandmother-mother - Matron, chief of the family, lightly overweight, grey hair braided tightly back, changing moods, can laugh and Love but also shout and punish." "Mother-joung - jung white women with curly brown hair, not happy with her marriage, torn apart by trying to be good at job and make everyone else happy" "Cousin-baby - Bold headed white baby, crying a lot, loved by everyone" Side Characters and Extras: "Baby: Nickname for the protagonist, used by her mother." "Me: Protagonist, energetic and restless as a child, with a connection to Siberia." "Fox: Character in the picture book" "Mother-joung: Protagonist's mother, worried and strained, trying to protect her child from the harsh environment." "Little bear: Character in the picture book" "Aunt: Smells of food, seeks refuge from Grandmother-mother, reads stories to the protagonist." "Grandmother-mother: Protagonist's grandmother, a caregiver and prison guard throughout the protagonist's childhood." Story Locations:

"Birth City - Big city in russia, 1 million inhabitants, lots of industry, black snow, lots of soviet panel construction buildings." "Grandparents - outskirts of a big city in kasachstan, small own house with garten, vegetables and chickens, chain link fence around with big red gate" "Plane: Olf fashioned propeller machine used to travel between birth city and grandparents" "Birth City: Place where the narrator was born, cold in winter, dirty due to pollution, plagued by grey snow" "Apartment: Dimly lit dwelling smelling of cabbage and dust" "Woods: forests around the big city" "Steppes: The windy plains of Kazakhstan" „Kitchen: Big room with a big Ofen in the corner, with round table in the other" "Grandmother-mother's house: A place for the narrator where is gets companionship of the cousin but feels unwanted and treated strictly by the grandmother-mother " "Factories: Industrial area with acrid smells" "Red gate: Entrance to a place with chickens and the scent of earth" "Cellar: Storage area with apples" "Sky: An impossibly blue expanse above" "Siberia: General location of the photograph, known for its cold climate" "Germany: The country the family is immigrating to" "Kazakhstan: A country, the destination of the plane journey" "Hallway: Where aunt whispers to her husband" "Playpen: A wooden cage where the narrator is confined" "Chicken coop: A cacophony of clucking and a source of chicken feathers" "Garden: Where a galvanized tin tub is placed for watering plants" "Well: Source of water for the bath in the garden"

The photograph, unearthed from a memories box, stopped me cold. A tiny, serious face stared back – me, impossibly small, bundled in layers of wool against the Siberian chill. Even in the faded image, the restless energy seemed to crackle. Grey snow, a common plague of the Birth City, settled on every surface outside. I remember the metallic tang of it even now, a sharp contrast to the soft, worn blanket clutched in my baby hands. Grandmother-mother always said I was a difficult child, never still. "Like she has bees in the butt," she'd grumble, though a hint of fondness always softened her voice. Perhaps she saw it too, this uncontainable spark, long before anyone had a name for it. The dirty snow crunched under my too-big boots as Mother-joung hurried me along, her face tight with worry. Each gust of wind carried the acrid bite of the factories, a taste that clung to the back of my throat. The concrete buildings loomed, grey and oppressive, mirroring the weariness in Mother-joung's eyes. "Quickly, Baby," she'd say, her voice strained, as she ushered me into the dimly lit apartment, the smell of cabbage and dust thick in the air. I knew, even then, that the smile she gave me didn't quite reach her eyes. The airplane propeller screeched, carrying us south, away from the black snow and Mother-joung's tight smiles. Dust motes danced in the weak sunlight filtering through the grimy window as I stared out at the blurring landscape. Kazakhstan.

Grandmother-mother's house. A haven, Mother-joung hoped. "Be good there," she murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears, smoothing my unruly hair. "She'll teach you all sorts of things." I didn't understand the ache in her voice, only the excitement of the unknown. The air grew warmer, carrying the scent of dry earth and sun-baked grass. This new place smelled like freedom, a stark contrast to the city's exhaust fumes. The red gate creaked open, revealing a riot of green. Chickens scattered, their squawks a cacophony compared to the city's dull roar. Sunlight warmed my face as Grandmother-mother emerged, a formidable figure in a floral dress, her grey braids pulled so tight they seemed to lift her eyebrows. The air hung thick with the earthy scent of tomatoes and something sharp, almost medicinal. "Nu, here she is," she declared, her voice a low rumble. "Let's see what kind of little bird you are." I clung to Mother-joung's skirt, overwhelmed. This wasn't the grey, echoing world I knew. This was… alive. Even the ground beneath my feet felt different, soft and yielding. A wave of dizziness washed over me, the smells and sounds pressing in, too much, too new. The sting on my palms burned. Grandmother-mother’s face was a thundercloud, etched with disapproval. "Standing still is not an option," she boomed, her voice shaking the small kitchen. My lower lip trembled, but I refused to cry.

Aunt Irina, her eyes soft with pity, quickly distracted Grandmother-mother by asking her to taste the soup. "She’s just a child, Mama," I heard Irina whisper later to her husband in the hallway. "Let her be." I didn't understand why it was so bad to stand still, to simply observe the world buzzing around me. The house smelled like dill and simmering cabbage, a comforting aroma that couldn't quite erase the burning shame. My cousin-baby started to cry. The playpen felt like a gilded cage. Cousin-baby gurgled and batted at a mobile of felt animals, oblivious to my profound boredom. I, however, was a prisoner of proximity. The air, thick with the sweet-sour smell of baby powder and spit-up, felt suffocating. I picked up a discarded picture book, its cardboard pages softened by drool, and began to read aloud, not to the baby, but to myself. "The little bear went for a walk," I announced in a grave voice, mimicking Grandmother-mother's storytelling tone. My finger traced the crude illustrations. "He met a fox. The fox said…" I paused, improvising, "Give me your honey!" I varied the voices, a different pitch for each character. It made the dullness bearable, this little performance. The red gate, usually a formidable barrier, stood slightly ajar. Freedom beckoned. One minute, I was confined by the wooden bars of the playpen, the next, I was wriggling under the gate, the gritty dust of the path coating my small hands.

The sun warmed the back of my neck as I toddled towards the chicken coop, a cacophony of clucking my guiding star. Grandmother-mother’s sharp voice sliced through the air. "Baby! Get back here!" Her shadow loomed large, swallowing the sunlight. I froze, a fistful of stray chicken feathers clutched in my hand, the metallic tang of their coop already clinging to my skin. Disappointment, heavy and familiar, settled in my stomach. The scolding faded with the distance. A few days later, an unexpected reprieve arrived in the form of a galvanized tin tub, dragged into the garden. Warm water, hauled bucket by bucket from the well, filled its depths. Cousin-baby, stripped down to his diaper, was unceremoniously plunked in. His initial shock dissolved into shrieks of delight, tiny hands splashing with abandon. Grandmother-mother, surprisingly, smiled. I was next. The sun beat down on my bare skin, the water a silken caress. For once, the air wasn’t thick with rules, but with the scent of sun-baked earth and the pure, unadulterated joy of a shared moment. Cousin-baby splashed me; I shrieked and splashed him back. Laughter, light and free, bubbled from my chest, a rare and precious thing. Aunt Irina, smelling faintly of lavender and cigarette smoke, often sought refuge from Grandmother-mother’s pronouncements in the shade of the apple tree. She’d beckon me over with a conspiratorial wink.

"Baby, come, let's sing." Then, in a soft voice, she’d begin a simple song about a little blue bird, repeating the words slowly, carefully. *Sineglazka, sineglazka…* Blue eyes, blue eyes. She'd point to my own eyes, then to the impossibly blue sky. The sounds, foreign yet comforting, resonated within me. It was a secret language, a game played just between us, a tiny spark of warmth against the ever-present chill of Grandmother-mother's disapproval. The red gate, usually a barrier, now pulsed with a forbidden allure. The rhythmic whoosh of passing cars, a kaleidoscope of colors blurring into streaks, held me captive. Grandmother-mother’s voice, usually a booming presence, was muffled, distant. Each vehicle was a fleeting promise of elsewhere. I edged closer, mesmerized. A horn blared, a sharp, angry sound. Then, a hand, rough and firm, yanked me back. “Baby! What do you think you're doing?” Grandmother-mother’s face, usually etched with stoicism, was now a mask of fear and fury. My lip trembled. The cars, the colors, the fleeting freedom – all vanished, replaced by the familiar sting of shame and the crushing weight of her disappointment. The apartment smelled different, sharper than Grandmother-mother’s house - of cleaning fluid and something metallic. Mother-young, a stranger with familiar eyes, reached for me. I stiffened, clinging to Grandmother-mother’s skirt. "Baby, it's Mama," she cooed, her voice a nervous tremor. But Mama was a scent, a song, a warmth I couldn't grasp. Grandmother-mother pried my fingers loose, her calloused hand surprisingly gentle.

"Be good for Mama," she said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. Then, she was gone. The door clicked shut, the sound echoing in the unfamiliar space. A sob caught in my throat. Mother-young scooped me up, but her embrace felt wrong, foreign. I twisted in her arms, reaching for the vanished scent of earth and chicken feed. This wasn't home. The grey panel walls of the apartment seemed to press in on me, suffocating. Clutched in my fist was the blanket, its worn edges frayed like Grandmother-mother’s temper. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet, like the apples she kept stored in the cellar. I buried my face in it, inhaling deeply, trying to conjure her image. The rough wool scratched my cheek, a familiar comfort in this alien place. Mother-young hummed a tuneless melody, the clatter of pots and pans a jarring symphony in the small kitchen. Each clang was a hammer blow, driving me further away from the red gate, the chickens, the scent of earth. Where was she? Why wasn't she here? A sob escaped, muffled by the blanket. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself back to her. The babble started slowly, a trickle of words testing the waters. "Baba?" I'd ask, tugging at Mother-young's skirt, the faded cotton rough against my small fingers. "Chicken? Garden?" Her brow would furrow, a shadow passing over her face. "That was before, Baby," she’d say, her voice tight.

"Before we came here." But the images flickered behind my eyes – the red gate, the clucking hens pecking at the dusty ground, Grandmother-mother’s strong hands weeding the vegetable patch. "Red gate?" I persisted, the words clumsy on my tongue. Mother-young sighed, the sound like air escaping a punctured balloon. "Yes, the red gate. Now, eat your soup." But the soup tasted like metal, like the grey walls, like absence. It didn't taste like home. The chipped enamel cup felt heavy in my small hands. I watched Mother-young carefully, mimicking the way she held hers, pinky extended just so. The tea tasted bitter, like disappointment. Grandmother-mother, visiting for the afternoon, was arguing with Mother-young in low, urgent tones. Their words, though hushed, vibrated in the small kitchen, thick as the steam rising from their cups. I tilted my head, observing. Grandmother-mother’s brow was furrowed, a deep line etched between her eyes. Mother-young’s lips were pressed into a thin, pale line. I practiced both expressions in the reflection of the tea. Understanding wasn't necessary; imitation was survival. The train rattled, a metal beast shaking us awake before dawn. Outside, the landscape had morphed from familiar birch forests to a vast, flat expanse of brown, stretching to a horizon I couldn't quite believe. Kazakhstan. Dust coated everything – the windows, the seats, even the gritty taste in my mouth. "It's just a little dust, School-Girl," Mother-young said, her voice trying to be cheerful, but her eyes held the same uncertainty I felt.

Grandmother-mother, across the aisle, just sighed and tightened her grip on Cousin-baby, who started wailing, a sound that echoed the hollowness growing inside me. This wasn't home. This was… nowhere. The numbers on the blackboard swam before my eyes, blurring into meaningless shapes. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes, a mournful song that pulled at my attention. "School-Girl! Are you even listening?" Frau Schmidt's voice, sharp as a winter wind, snapped me back. I blinked, trying to focus on the arithmetic problem, but my mind felt like a butterfly, flitting from one bright thought to another. "Scatterbrained! Always daydreaming!" Her words stung, but they weren't untrue. I was lost in a world of my own making, a place far more interesting than sums and fractions. The chalk dust scratched at my throat, a physical manifestation of the frustration building inside me. Why couldn't I just concentrate? The library was my sanctuary. The scent of aged paper and binding glue filled my nostrils, a comforting aroma that masked the dust of Kazakhstan. Rows upon rows of silent stories whispered promises of adventure. I’d trace my fingers along the spines, drawn to titles like "The Little Prince" and "Pippi Longstocking." These characters, outcasts in their own way, understood me. Pippi, with her mismatched socks and boundless imagination, was a kindred spirit. I devoured her tales, picturing myself sailing the high seas, a fearless adventurer unbound by rules or expectations. In those pages, I wasn't just School-Girl, the scatterbrained immigrant. I was extraordinary.

The news hit like a rogue wave, pulling the familiar ground from beneath my feet. Germany. We were leaving. Leaving the small house with the red gate, Grandmother-mother's simmering borscht, even the biting Kazakh wind that whipped through the steppes. Leaving everything. "But...my books?" I stammered, the scent of library paper suddenly a painful memory. Mother-young squeezed my hand, her eyes shining with a mixture of hope and fear. "It will be a new beginning, Solnyshko. A better life." But all I could see was a vast, unknowable future, a place where my words would be foreign, my stories unheard. A place where I would be even more of an outsider. The German rain tasted like disappointment. Everything felt too clean, too ordered, a stark contrast to the chaotic warmth of Kazakhstan. Years later, slumped on a scratchy sofa in a Berlin flat, the doctor’s words echoed: "Attention Deficit...Hyperactivity..." It explained so much. The endless fidgeting, the unfinished projects, the library books scattered like fallen leaves. Grandmother-mother had just called me "scatterbrained," but it was more than that, wasn’t it? It was the red gate swinging open, the endless horizon, the constant need to chase the wind, all crammed into a world that demanded stillness. A world where even the rain seemed to fall in neat, predictable lines. The diagnosis, a late-blooming label, felt less like a curse and more like a key. A key to understanding the whirlwind inside, the constant hum of restlessness that had always been.

Sitting in my Berlin flat, the rain a gentler patter now, I traced the faded floral pattern on the teacup. Grandmother-mother’s voice, sharp yet loving, echoed in my memory: "Always chasing butterflies, Solnyshko." Maybe she was right. But now, I realized, I could chase those butterflies with intention, with understanding. The red gate might be closed, but the horizon was still endless, just viewed from a different vantage point.