A Competing Fast and Feast (Happy Fourth of July!)

To mark the Fourth of July, I decided to present Chapter 26, “A Competing Fast and Feast,” of Movements in the Symphony of 1939. Enjoy!

Cinni’s eyes were wide with delight as she browsed the crates, boxes, baskets, and stalls of a panoply of fireworks in the parking lot of Gregory’s Groceries. “I wish I could buy this entire supply. Every year we have leftovers, but I can’t resist buying new stuff. You can never have too many fireworks.”

“Ain’t you afraid you’ll burn yourself or blow your hand off?” Sparky asked. “They’re like colored dynamite.”

Cinni added a pack of twenty multicolored Roman candles to her oversized shopping basket and moved on to a stall hawking sparklers. “My daddy’s trusted me with ’em since I was three. He’d never let me do anything really dangerous.”

“This seems a colossal waste of money,” Gary lamented. “Fireworks aren’t a necessary item like food, clothes, and housing. They look pretty for a very short while and then disappear forever.”

“Didn’t you buy Juli flowers and candy?” Cinni selected sparklers in red, blue, orange, silver, green, purple, dark pink, white, and yellow. “Those ain’t necessary items either.”

“I bought Juli more lasting gifts. Flowers wilt too soon, and chocolate is eaten even quicker.”

Cinni moved on to a huge crate overflowing with bounty and tossed five thick, densely-packed bricks of fireworks into her basket. She shifted her basket to the other arm and looked around for Barry, shaking her head when she found him sitting on the grass, a bored look on his face. “You don’t know what you’re missing without fireworks. They’re so fun, and these are a lot simpler than fancy ones in public shows. What did you do for Holland’s independence day?”

“Holland doesn’t have a lot of national holidays,” Sparky said. “We celebrated New Year’s Day and the Queen’s birthday. All the other public holidays are Christian.”

“There’s no independence day for The Netherlands,” Gary said. “Germany doesn’t have one either. All their public holidays are Christian as well, except for New Year’s Day and Women’s Day.”

“Golly, you have a holiday all about women? I wish America had that holiday.” Cinni set her basket down, pulled a piece of caramel taffy out of her left skirt pocket, and popped it into her mouth.

“It’s associated with Communism, so it hasn’t caught on in most countries.”

Cinni picked her basket up. “This stuff’s getting heavy. I wish I’d brought a wagon.”

“No one told you to buy nearly so many fireworks. Are you sure you can afford all this?”

“My daddy gave me five bucks, and it ain’t like I’m getting fancy adult fireworks.”

Sparky and Gary joined Barry on the grass while Cinni went inside to pay. Unable to help herself, Cinni skirted past the checkout and hightailed it into the ice-cream aisle. She lingered long and hard over the richness of the choice before finally selecting five bricks of red, white, and blue ice-cream, two boxes of blue Italian ices, and a baker’s dozen each of red popsicles and chocolate bars. Cinni struggled under the weight of her loot as she headed to the checkout.

Before she got into line, Cinni spied a fat loaf of chocolate bread with chocolate chips on the rack of discount baked goods. She grabbed it and put it in her basket before anyone could steal it. The last items added to her loot were a few candybars next to the cash register.

“Six dollars and eighty-five cents,” Gregory informed her.

Cinni dug out the five-dollar bill her father had given her and produced two more dollars of her own. The fifteen cents in change consisted of an 1895 Barber dime and a 1911 Liberty Head nickel. Cinni was always delighted to find coins that weren’t minted anymore, though she wasn’t a serious collector.

Gary’s eyes widened when he saw Cinni emerging from the store with a nearly overflowing basket. Without saying anything, he took the basket from her.

“Thanks. This stuff’s really heavy.”

“It wouldn’t be nearly so heavy if you hadn’t bought so much extra stuff,” Barry said as they started walking. “Did you have enough money for all this?”

“I only had to pay two bucks of my own, and I got some neat old change.” Cinni pulled a piece of grape taffy out of her right skirt pocket and tossed it into her mouth. “After we have lunch, we need to get stuff for our Fourth of July picnic. Your mom’s welcome to come too. You can’t object to celebrating this holiday, since it’s totally secular.”

“We’ll have to check the calendar,” Gary said. “The Seventeenth of Tammuz is coming up really soon. If it coincides with the Fourth of July, we won’t be able to eat anything till nightfall.”

Cinni shook her head. “How many fasts do you have? I only knew about Yom Kippur before I met your family, and you’ve done four more besides that.”

“There are six everyone’s obligated to.” Gary smiled down at a tortoiseshell cat. “Only firstborns have to do the fast before Pesach. My religious school teacher in Amsterdam taught us to remember them mnemonically. The long and the short, the boy and the girl, the black and the white. The Seventeenth of Tammuz is the longest fast, and the Tenth of Tevet is the shortest. Then there are Tzom Gedaliyah and Tzom Esther, named for people. Yom Kippur is white and Tisha B’Av is black, referring to their respective moods of happiness and sadness.”

Cinni jumped one-footed over a chalk drawing of a dragon. “How can anyone be happy fasting all day? Depriving yourself of food is depressing no matter what.”

Destruction of the Temple of Jerusalem, by Francesco Hayez

“We’re happy because we’re purifying ourselves, and it’s the long-awaited high point of the year. Tisha B’Av is the saddest, lowest day on our calendar, and when it’s over, we immediately begin a seven-week countdown to Yom Kippur. Each day, each week brings us higher and closer, just as there are seven weeks of getting lower and lower between Shavuot and Tisha B’Av. You might understand better if your religion had fasts.”

“As boring as Methodism is, I’m glad we don’t gotta fast. My Babushka Ksyusha has really strict, long fasts in the weeks before Easter and Christmas. Orthodox Christians ain’t allowed to eat any meat, fish, dairy, eggs, wine, or oil.” Cinni kicked a pebble into a gutter. “Religious fanatics do a whole bunch more fasts. It’s safe to say I’ll never convert to that denomination.”

“So you don’t think we have the most fun religion anymore?” Barry asked.

Siege and destruction of Jerusalem

“Judaism’s a lot more colorful and neat than Protestantism, but I don’t like being stuck in any house of worship for a few hours once a week, and I’d wanna chew my arm off long before a fast ended. Praying also never appealed to me. If I wanna talk to God, assuming he or she exists, I’ll do it on my own time, in my own words, not by mindlessly repeating boring words someone else wrote hundreds of years ago when I’m ordered to.” Cinni knelt to pick up a penny and put it in her left skirt pocket. “My favorite parts of the Bible are the stories, not boring lectures from prophets, lists of laws, and repetitions of stuff that already happened. That book needed a much better editor.”

“There’s a lot more to religion than prayer services and holy books,” Gary said. “You just haven’t found the right spiritual home yet. Not everyone’s lucky enough to be born into a religion that feels like coming home. Or it could be the right faith, just not practiced in the way which most fits with who you are.”

“Like how your mom left Orthodoxy?”

Vespasian and his army on their way to destroy Jerusalem

“The style of Orthodoxy she was raised with isn’t representative of the modern, mainstream Orthodox world. Barry, Kätchen, and I got a very misleading view of Orthodoxy because of her bad experience. Now that my family attends a Neolog synagogue, I realize there’s a very wide variety within Orthodoxy. My mother was raised with a rigid, rote, colorless, overly strict style. It’s a wonder her parents gave some of their kids German names. Her sister Ruchel broke away too, but in a different way. We should always strive for a happy medium between strict rigidity and an overly secular, anything goes lifestyle.”

Cinni itched to know just which direction Mrs. Small’s sister had gone in, but dared not pose such a personal question. Gary might be the most intelligent, well-spoken one in his family, but he was so shy, modest, and old-fashioned. If Ruchel had become what adults sneeringly called a fallen woman, Gary would never admit it or provide any details. Besides, Cinni cared most about getting her treats into the freezer before they melted, and stuffing some down her throat. It was always the right time to indulge her sweet tooth.

***

Mrs. Filliard and Lucinda were eating bonbons and gossiping in the living room when Cinni and the Brandts came in. Lucinda shook her head at the excess contents of the basket, while Mrs. Filliard hung her head in her hands.

“How quickly the princess has forgotten what it was like to have the wolf at the door,” Mrs. Filliard said. “Did you have enough money to pay for all that? Your overindulgent father only gave you five dollars.”

“I’m no dummy. I always carry extra cash in case I’m tempted by other stuff.”

“Unless your father has a miraculous recovery, it’ll just be me one day.” Mrs. Filliard took a sip of tea. “I’m not saying this to sound mean and unfeeling, but that just might be the thing that finally wakes you up and makes you grow up. You’ll have no choice but to learn about the value of money and the importance of budgeting. Someone as proudly working-class as you ought to know how foolish it is to waste money on fireworks, ice-cream, and chocolate bread.”

Gary hurried off to the kitchen to put away the frozen food.

Mrs. Filliard dropped a sugar cube into her teacup, then drizzled honey in. “I don’t expect you to have an adult, mature mindset when you’re not even twelve yet, but it’s not like you’re in first grade. You’re more than old enough to understand some important things and not be so impulsive. Things like candy and firecrackers are special treats saved for last, after you’ve bought important things you need.”

“Then how come you don’t mind when Aunt Lucinda blows so much money on shopping? You can’t claim she needs designer clothes and jewelry from Paris, Italian wines, Persian rugs, and British furniture.”

“I have a rich husband, and it’s my way of taking my mind off my unwanted marriage.” Lucinda helped herself to a strawberry bonbon.

Mrs. Filliard ate a caramel bonbon. “I want you to go to A&P with me next week. With any luck, you’ll learn a thing or two about appropriate grocery shopping and spending. As I’ve told you many a time, being a junior grownup is about far more than having a bustline, reading advanced books, and cursing.”

Cinni rolled her eyes when her back was turned to her aunt and mother. There’d be plenty of time for boring, unavoidable adult responsibilities when she was older, but for now, her number one priority was having as much fun and being as carefree as possible.

***

After a lunch of an egg salad sandwich with bacon and Velveeta, three thick pickles, a bowl of potato chips, chocolate egg cream, and a chocolate popsicle, Cinni headed into the guesthouse. Gary and Barry were respectively reading Taylor Caldwell’s historical saga Dynasty of Death and Newsweek magazine on the living room davenport, while Mrs. Small knitted a green shawl on the loveseat.

“Where’s Sparky?” Cinni asked.

“In the kitchen, washing dishes,” Mrs. Small said without looking up from her knitting.

Cinni wrinkled her nose. “I hope I have enough money for a maid or onea them new-fangled dishwashing machines when I’m an adult. Housework is so boring.”

“It’s a necessary obligation of running a successful household. Someone has to do it, even if no one normal enjoys such tasks. When I was a girl in Hamburg, my mother made dusting, mopping, sweeping, and washing dishes into fun games for me and my seven sisters.”

“But not your brothers?”

“It’s that way in most homes. I thought to question many things about how I was raised, but not that aspect.” Mrs. Small glanced down at her knitting pattern. “Men and women have different roles. It doesn’t mean we’re unequal where it really matters.”

Cinni decided not to pursue this line of conversation any further. Mrs. Small was no closer to changing her way of thinking than she’d been when they met, and there was little Cinni could do about it but keep planting seeds and wait for them to take root. She was old enough to know most people didn’t radically change overnight because of repeated lectures. Real, lasting change had to happen naturally, over a long period of time.

“Anyway, Mrs. Small, would you like to join my family’s Fourth of July picnic on Monday? We’re also going to a parade in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to celebrate that holiday together this year,” Mrs. Small said. “It coincides with Tzom Tammuz, a minor fast. Fritz said he told you a little about it today.”

Sparky came into the living room and had a seat on the davenport.

“The Seventeenth of Tammuz marks the anniversary of the walls of Jerusalem being breached by the Romans,” Gary said. “It’s also when the first Ten Commandments were broken, and several other calamities. We’re not allowed to listen to music either. The fast only lasts from dawn to dusk, so we’ll be able to eat with you at night and watch fireworks.”

Detail of Hayez painting

“In that case, you oughta buy picnic grub for dinner,” Cinni said. “We’re roasting it on a bonfire during fireworks.”

“I don’t see the harm,” Mrs. Small finally conceded. “We’re allowed to cook on Tzom Tammuz, even if we won’t be able to eat the food till dusk.”

Cinni pulled the last piece of taffy out of her right skirt pocket and slipped it into her mouth. “Wonderful. We’ll expect you there as soon as dusk falls. I guarantee you’ll have a great time on your first Fourth of July.”

***

Cinni awoke bright and early on July Fourth and hurried to her wardrobe for a light red sundress with a white and blue firework pattern. Once she was dressed, she got on her knees and pulled the stash of candy out from under her bed. Sam, ever the modern-day Puritan, had already gotten up, put on her dour clothes, and gone downstairs for breakfast and her first prayers of the day.

“Want any, Spark?” Cinni asked as Sparky went behind the changing screen. “Some of it’s probably kosher.”

“I’m not eating anything till lunch, and even then I can only eat a very light lunch,” Sparky reminded her. “At most, I can have a glass of water or some nuts if I feel weak and faint, just to give me enough strength to continue fasting.”

The Siege and Destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans Under the Command of Titus, A.D. 70, by David Roberts

“But you will go to the parade with me, won’t you? They always throw candy from the floats, and you might catch some kosher candy.” Cinni popped a handful of coconut jellybeans into her mouth.

“Today begins three weeks of mourning practices, which includes not listening to live music. My family ain’t as strict about these prohibitions as the Orthodox, but we still follow most of them.”

Cinni ate a handful of cherry gumdrops. “But you worked so hard to become a real American girl. You have to celebrate the Fourth of July. We’re having a big barbecue and picnic in the backyard with the Holidays, the Vallis, and the Hitchcocks. Then we’re having all sorts of fireworks when it gets dark, and roasting dinner on a bonfire.” Cinni rubbed her stomach before she ate three pieces of peppermint fudge.

Sparky emerged from behind the screen, wearing a knee-length dress with red, white, and blue stripes. “What time is the parade?”

“It starts at nine and lasts till eleven-thirty. The sooner we get there, the better seats we’ll nab.” Cinni tossed a few caramels into her mouth. “It’s standing room only for people who arrive late.”

“I’ll wait for you in the library. If I see you eating, I’ll be too tempted.”

Cinni helped herself to a big piece of raspberry fudge before putting her stash of sweets back under the bed. Eating all those treats had taken away a lot of her appetite, but there was always room for more. After almost starving to death, she could never get enough food into her stomach, and didn’t care if she became more than just twelve pounds overweight when she was older. There was a lot of happy medium between twenty or thirty extra pounds and being as massive as Mrs. Seward. Besides, a larger waistline automatically meant a bigger bust, and she longed to be the biggest of all her friends.

In the kitchen, Cinni pulled up a chair between Babs and her father and piled her plate high with red, white, and blue pancakes. There were also red, white, and blue waffles, but she’d get to them after finishing the pancakes. Cinni dumped a huge heaping spoonful of whipped cream on top of her pancakes and liberally smothered it with colored sprinkles. The last additions to her plate were five big spoonfuls of blueberries.

“You need to save room for lunch,” Mrs. Filliard said. “We also can’t dally over breakfast if we want to get to the parade early enough to find good seats.”

Cinni shovelled the first forkful of pancakes into her mouth. “Food doesn’t sit in the stomach for hours. It moves around and does scientific stuff to help the body work.”

“I’m shocked your family celebrates the Fourth of July,” Urma pontificated from the other side of the table. “You seem the type to hate anything patriotic.”

“We’re not mindless jingoists like you,” Mr. Filliard said. “And we reject the ridiculous mythology passed off as American history. But that doesn’t mean we hate our country and refuse to celebrate this holiday. We just do it in a different way. Life isn’t an either-or choice, but composed of a beautiful patchwork quilt of many shades of grey.”

Urma growled and resumed eating her humorless grey, clumpy porridge.

“Will your family be joining us at the parade?” Lucinda asked. “Atlantic City’s parade can’t possibly hold a candle to the festivities in D.C., but ours is nothing to sneeze at. We’re not a tiny hamlet in the middle of nowhere.”

“My father will be in the parade,” Elmira said as she put waffles on her plate. “He always marches with the Marines, in his full dress uniform.”

“My grandpa George Filliard also marches in his uniform,” Cinni said.

Babs put three more waffles on her plate and dumped whipped cream and blueberries on top. “Our Praprababcia Tatjana’s on a special float for widows of Civil War veterans. There ain’t no living Civil War vets left in this city, but there are a number of widows. Prapradziadek Damian died twenty years ago, so we never met him. The men in our family don’t live nearly as long as the ladies.”

“That’s because women are superior to men,” Cinni said with a smirk. “They talk a good game about being the superior sex, but that’s just pretending to hide what they’re really all about. They might usually be physically stronger and legally allowed to do more things, but women are stronger where it really counts.”

Urma took a sip of milk. “That just goes to show how often you read the Bible. It says right there in the Good Book that men were made to rule over us. Thanks to Eve, we lost the chance to be immortal and live in paradise on Earth. Men were created first for a reason.”

“Because you always make a rough draft before the final masterpiece, with all the mistakes erased.” Cinni ate her final forkful of pancakes and plopped five waffles onto her plate.

Urma glowered at Mortez for laughing. “You’re supposed to take my side against these heretics. I keep hoping you’ll someday see the light.”

“How are the Filliards heretics?” Mortez asked. “They go to church every week and celebrate all the major Protestant holidays. You act like they’re atheists or twice a year churchgoers.” He took a bite of waffles. “I keep hoping you’ll someday wake up from this ideological insanity and return to the normal, fun person you used to be.”

“That so-called insanity is called being a proper Christian. Some days I think living in this secular household is making you even more irreligious than you already were.” Urma shot daggers at him with her eyes before pushing her chair back and dumping her bowl in the sink.

Cinni shovelled the rest of her breakfast down her gullet as swiftly as possible and ran up to the attic for her phone-shaped purse. Though she didn’t plan to go to any stores, it was a convenient way to keep the candy she caught, and carrying a purse made her look older and more sophisticated.

Cinni and Sparky got into the Model A with Cinni’s parents and Babs, while Lucinda, Elmira, Stacy, M.J., and the Smarts took the seven-seater Renault Vivastella. Cinni didn’t envy Sparky’s parents and brothers, attending a religious service and fasting instead of having fun on a holiday.

The Filliards’ two cars pulled out of their driveway simultaneous to the Vallis’ beaten-up old Model T, the Holidays’ dull green Terraplane, and the Hitchcocks’ latest luxury car, a sapphire-blue Bugatti. Cinni waved out the window to them.

Cinni scrambled out of the car as soon as her father found a parking spot two blocks away from the parade’s route. She and Sparky grabbed folding chairs and pillows from the trunk of Lucinda’s car, which was wedged between the Model A and Terraplane, and ran to stake out a perfect spot. Violet and Mandy sat to their left, and Tina sat to their right.

At nine sharp, a fife and drum corps marching in troop steep started down the street, outfitted in black tricorn hats, white wigs, white trousers, and red Colonial coats.

“Didn’t the British wear red coats?” Sparky whispered.

“My daddy told me military musicians in that era wore the opposite regiment’s colors,” Cinni said.

Following the costumed musicians came a float bearing firefighters, decorated with red, white, and blue balloons and streamers. Just as Cinni had said, they threw candy to the crowd. Cinni, Tina, and Violet leapt up to try catching as much as they could, and kept rooted to the spot. Even more candy came from the second float, carrying police. Sparky waved at them but didn’t try to catch any candy.

Behind the police float came a brass band, and then a float with Boy Scouts. Henry was on the left side, facing the girls. Dan was on his left, and R.R. and his brothers were on his right.

“The Pinkertons hate Boy Scouts so much,” Cinni whispered to Sparky. “Their folks put them in it to keep ’em outta trouble. If only they knew just how much more trouble Ralphie and his brothers get up to within Boy Scouts, and what they’re really doing when the rest of the troop is on camping trips.”

Following the Boy Scouts’ float were floats for 4-H, the Civilian Conservation Corps, Girl Scouts, Camp Fire Girls, Future Farmers of America, Children of the American Revolution, Daughters of the American Revolution, Sons of the Revolution, Sons of the American Revolution, Colonial Dames of America, Luther League, YMCA, and YWCA. Cinni, Tina, and Violet collected many handfuls of candy from all these floats.

An equestrian unit came down the street after all those floats in a row. Next up was a marching band accompanied by a color guard performing with flags, sabers, and rifles.

“Ew, it’s my least-favorite float.” Cinni looked dismissively at the overly made up young women clad in bathing suits. “It’s bad enough our city hosts that stupid Miss America pageant, but there’s a local beauty contest every Fourth of July too. I’d rather win a contest because of my smarts, not how good I look in a swimsuit or evening gown.”

“You’d never win anyway,” Violet said. “Even if you used a girdle to try to hide your true size, you have to tell them your weight. They also might think you ain’t really white ’cause of your Polish and Russian blood. Some people are really goofy about that and only count Western European ancestry as white.”

“Exactly. I’d never apply for a contest with such dumb rules or want to be judged on my appearance.” Cinni wrinkled her nose at the next float, featuring past winners of the beauty contest. “There ain’t no beauty pageant for men.”

“This is the worst part of the parade,” Tina said as the baton-twirling majorettes came into view. “Mickey’s sister Tabbi is in that silly group. Her dream is to become the school’s lead majorette, as though it takes any talent to twirl a damn baton. She wants to be a professional majorette when she’s a grownup.”

“What’s Tabbi’s birth order?” Sparky asked.

“Sixth or seventh,” Cinni said. “I always forget if she or Donny comes first, since they’re Irish twins.”

“Aren’t all the Carlsons Irish twins?” Violet asked. “They’re more like Irish whatever you call thirteen kids born at once.”

“Not all of ’em are only a year apart,” Tina said. “It’s more like thirteen, fourteen, fifteen months. Tabbi and Donny are the only ones less than twelve months apart and in the same grade.”

Next came a fleet of vintage cars, bicycles, motorcycles, firetrucks, horse-drawn stagecoaches, buggies, and wagons. All the drivers and passengers were outfitted in costumes matching the vehicles’ respective eras.

“I’d love to drive onea them old cars when I’m an adult,” Cinni said. “It’s too much to hope I’ll ever have enough money to own one, but playing pretend one day a year would be fun enough.”

Following all the vehicles was the float with widows of Civil War veterans, holding large framed pictures of their husbands in uniform. Cinni’s ninety-nine-year-old great-great-grandma Tatjana Modjeska was on a chair with red, white, and blue cushions and bunting. Though most of the widows were elderly, there were a few unmistakably young women.

“Are they all on the right float?” Sparky asked. “Or is this float also for widows of soldiers from other wars?”

Cinni wrinkled her nose. “A lot of really young women married old coots who fought in the Civil War to get their pension money. I’d never be so desperate for a husband I’d marry someone old enough to be my grandpa. If more women were allowed to work and keep all their money, we wouldn’t see so many convenience marriages.”

“You should jump at the chance to marry a rich guy,” Violet said. “Being rich is the best feeling in the world. How can you want to stay working-class your whole life?”

“My daddy says we’re upper-working-class, which is a lot better than being poor like we used to be. I’m used to living fairly simply, as big as our house is.”

Next up were veterans of the Spanish–American War, the Philippine–American War, the various conflicts in Latin America and the Caribbean, and the Great War which had ended in 1918. Many of Cinni’s friends’ fathers were in the lattermost group, and Henry’s father, a West Point graduate and general, carried the flag.

“Wasn’t your father in that war?” Sparky asked Cinni. “He’s just the right age.”

“He had to register for the draft, but was never called. There were more than enough guys serving for him not to be missed. He says that war was little more than a family feud that got outta hand, not a morally justified war like the Civil War.”

Cinni’s paternal grandfather, Captain George Filliard, appeared on the horizon, holding the flag and leading veterans and current servicemen who hadn’t been in any wars. Jasper was also among this group, marching in perfect formation with the other Marines and bearing a normal expression instead of the unsettling one he usually did.

Last up were the women who served as ambulance drivers and nurses in the Great War. Cinni rankled at how they were made to appear last instead of mixed in with the other veterans.

The final float carried local dignitaries, who threw taffy, candybars, caramels, and bubblegum. Cinni scrambled to retrieve as much as possible. Though her purse was already bulging from this morning’s loot, there was no such thing as too much candy.

“Hungry yet, Spark?” Cinni asked as they made their way back to the car.

“It’s not too bad, but I’m glad I can eat a light lunch.”

“You’d never wanna fast even part of the day if you almost starved to death like I did.” Cinni moved her purse to her other hand. “I can’t wait to start shovelling grub down my mouth.”

***

Cinni’s family and neighbors returned with her grandparents, her great-grandmother Bogda Radlenska and her sisters Natasha and Rimma, and Tatjana in tow. Mr. Hitchcock muttered under his breath about low-bred habits when Cinni’s relatives parked their cars on the lawn.

“Would you care to lend your oversized garage?” Cinni asked. “That thing’s as big as a small house, and at least four of your cars could be moved onto the driveway.”

“That’s another vulgar, low-brow habit,” Mr. Hitchcock said. “People of means never park their cars in a driveway. They always keep vehicles safe in a locked garage to avoid thieves. The wealthy never seek to emulate vulgar bourgeois or working-class habits.”

“Then why are you joining our picnic?” Babs asked.

Mr. Hitchcock tipped his cream-colored fedora to Tatjana as she made her way into the backyard on the arm of Cinni’s maternal grandma Krystyna Radulska. “My wife and daughters wanted to come, and it’s my duty to accompany them.” He looked dismissively at Butler Reagan, dressed in a pale yellow polo shirt and blue cotton trousers. “If I’d had my way, Douglas wouldn’t have come here either. Servants aren’t supposed to be best friends with their employers.”

Cinni skipped into the backyard, where her grandfather Lech Radulski was filling the wide stone cooking pit with charcoal and small pieces of firewood. Her father was resting in a cushioned teal lounge chair, sipping ice water, a shade umbrella over him. For a brief moment, Cinni couldn’t help but wonder if his heart really were worsening. Then she pushed it out of her mind and went to find a folding chair around one of the wooden tables Mr. Valli and Mr. Holiday had lugged in.

She watched with hungry eyes as Mrs. Filliard and Lucinda cut up several watermelons, while Mr. Valli filled bowls with potato chips, pretzels, and popcorn. Cinni leapt on the biggest watermelon slice and began ravenously devouring it. The macaroni salad, potato salad, and tomato salad Babs and M.J. brought out didn’t interest her. She hated the texture and taste of mayonnaise, and tomato salad was a boring healthy food, the kind that had no place at a picnic.

Sparky’s stomach growled as the scents of chicken, hamburgers, hotdogs, corn on the cob, beef ribs, corndogs, sausages, and shishkebab with mushrooms and zucchini floated through the air. She filled with relief when Gary and Barry emerged from the back door of the guesthouse, carrying a plate of watermelon slices with a cup balanced on top, a bowl of tomato and cucumber salad, a pitcher of ice water, and a bowl of roasted peanuts and popcorn.

“I wish I could join your picnic,” Gary said as he set the watermelon and water on Sparky’s table. “It’s no fun having to fast in the summer, particularly on my first Fourth of July.”

“Can’t you even have lemonade or iced tea?” Lucinda asked. “It seems cruel and unusual to prohibit drinking anything during a fast.”

“Even water is prohibited, unless one is very weak and nauseous. Does Methodism really have no fast days at all?”

“There are four fasts a year, none of which I remember, plus Good Friday,” Mrs. Filliard said. “I doubt anyone in our church, even the minister, observes them. Some Methodists also abstain from meat on Fridays just like Catholics. Had my parents made me do any of that, I would’ve joined the Unitarians or Quakers as soon as I turned eighteen, this neighborhood’s majority religion be damned.”

“So you don’t believe in your own religion?” Barry asked. “Then why attend a Methodist church, or any church?”

“It’s just part of conforming to this neighborhood’s majority culture and mainstream American society.”

“But you just admitted you’d find another church if you were unhappy with your birth religion, and don’t follow most of your religion’s laws anyway.”

Mrs. Filliard began cutting a cantaloupe. “Going to church every week is an unavoidable obligation of decent society. It’s a social club for most people, not something they passionately believe all the theological details of. All Protestant churches seem the same to me, and Methodism just happens to be this neighborhood’s majority denomination. It could just as easily be Lutheran, Presbyterian, Baptist, or Dutch Reformed as far as I’m concerned.”

“No wonder Cinni’s so opposed to organized religion,” Gary said. “She copies your example. You might make her attend church every week and celebrate Christmas and Easter, but she sees you care less about religious observance.” He went off to talk with the elders.

Barry looked around furtively for several very long moments before grabbing a small slice of cantaloupe and pushing it into his mouth. He chewed as fast as possible while Sparky looked on with wide eyes.

“I’m hungry,” he whispered. “The only fast days I feel a connection to are Yom Kippur and Ta’anit Esther. All the others seem so irrelevant in the modern era. I ain’t looking forward to Tisha B’Av in three weeks.”

“Will your folks beat you if they catch you eating during a fast?” Cinni asked.

“No, they don’t believe in corporal punishment.” Barry grabbed a piece of honeydew and popped it into his mouth. “Why should I care about the walls of Jerusalem being breached or the first Ten Commandments being broken thousands of years ago? I care even less about the other supposedly tragic events that happened on this day.” He ate another piece of cantaloupe. “We’ve been doing just fine without a Temple for almost two thousand years. It wasn’t right for the Romans and Babylonians to destroy both of them, but that doesn’t mean we should keep treating it like the greatest tragedy ever. Our people adapted to life without it.”

Cinni’s mind raced as he walked over to Robert Valli. Based on what Barry had just said, she had new hopes of someday being his girlfriend. There wasn’t a very big leap between rejecting minor fasts as outdated and dating Gentiles. But right now, Cinni had far greater priorities, like calling dibs on a hamburger coming off the barbecue. Holidays were a time to eat and eat and eat, not engage in deep thoughts and daydream about her future.

***

Early fireworks began illuminating the sky as the adults cooked dinner over several bonfires and the cooking pit. By now, Tzom Tammuz was just about over, so the Smalls were able to join in with their own kosher food. Sparky hungrily sat by her family’s bonfire and inhaled the delicious scents of chicken, potatoes, and hotdogs.

“Thank God I can eat again,” Barry said as he grabbed a foil-wrapped potato with his left hand and a hotdog on a long stick with his right hand. “It wasn’t fun having to fast on the Fourth of July. I hope these days don’t coincide next year too.”

“Sometimes these things are unavoidable,” Mr. Small said. “It’s part of modern life.”

“We’re supposed to live in this world, not be of this world,” Mrs. Small said. “Commitment to Judaism always comes first, even if it’s not easy. If our ancestors had given in to the temptations of secular society when the going got a little tough, we might, God forbid, have been born into non-Jewish families, or families who only had a superficial cultural connection to Judaism. A chain with weak links easily breaks.”

Cinni gobbled a chicken breast with her bare hands as she kept her eyes on the darkening sky. As soon as she finished dinner, she’d start setting off her fireworks and lighting her sparklers. “Sometimes we watch fireworks over the Boardwalk, but this is just as good of a place to see them. It’s also a lot less crowded here, and we’re guaranteed a seat.”

“How do they do that?” Gary marvelled as the sky filled with blue, silver, red, and green. “It’s a beautiful combination of art and science.” He took a bite of a corndog covered with hot mustard and pickle relish.

“There are special names for the different types of pyrotechnic effects,” Mr. Filliard said. “I don’t know them off the top of my head, but I’ve read about them.”

Cinni finished her chicken and reached for a sausage on a stick. “I’m glad I ain’t the one responsible for setting them up. I ain’t got the kinda math and science smarts for that.”

“It’s not that difficult,” Lech said. “You just need to set them up in the order and direction you want to fire them. Once you do it enough times, it becomes easier and easier.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Gary said. “I’m not interested in playing with gunpowder and dynamite, though it’s very pretty to watch.”

After finishing her sausage, Cinni grabbed a large potato, cut it in half, and smothered it in hot melted Velveeta, salt, and maple syrup. Mrs. Filliard hung her head in her hands.

“That looks like it tastes disgusting,” Barry said.

“I like creating unique flavor combinations,” Cinni said as red, blue, and white fireworks exploded. “Sometimes I mix sweet stuff with lunchmeat or tuna fish.”

“Men don’t want a fat woman,” Mrs. Filliard said. “It’ll also be harder to squeeze yourself into a girdle when you’re old enough, and larger clothes are more expensive because they use more material.”

Cinni licked her fingers. “I’m never wearing a girdle. That’s a barely-updated version of the corset. Modern girls only need bras.”

“Believe it or not, corsets weren’t the rib-crushing, organ-displacing torture devices you modern girls think they were,” Bogda said. “Most women didn’t tight-lace or sleep in them. They were just another part of our daily wardrobe and provided wonderful support. I often miss corsets, and wish they were still manufactured. Girdles and brassieres just don’t do the same job.”

Mrs. Filliard was bright red. “Babciu, we’re in mixed company, and not in private! Decent ladies never discuss such matters openly.”

“Being a lady is highly overrated. Women have much more fun.” Bogda speared a marshmallow and held the stick over the bonfire. “I said nothing overly revealing or personal, unless you think it’s unseemly to acknowledge the existence of undergarments.”

Mrs. Filliard shook her head and went over to the Vallis’ bonfire.

Cinni speared three marshmallows and roasted them with her left hand while eating a piece of chocolate with her right hand. “You wanna try setting off some Roman candles, Spark?”

“Where are they?”

Cinni pointed. “All you do is light ’em and wait for the magic to happen. We’ll do sparklers afterwards, when my hands are free.”

Sparky carefully picked up a long stick with a flaming end and walked up to the sand-filled buckets stuffed with Roman candles. She lit them as quickly as possible, not wanting to linger in case they started going off too soon.

The sky filled with a rainbow of colors shooting out in all directions as Cinni ate her marshmallows sandwiched between two big pieces of chocolate. Not to be outdone, the Holidays and the Vallis hurried to their own firework displays and began setting them off. On command, Mr. Hitchcock muttered loudly about how vulgar and common this was, and how much this part of the neighborhood had changed for the worst since he was born.

“I wish tonight could last forever,” Barry said as he lay on his back and gazed up at the multicolored pyrotechnic show, when he was sure his parents were well out of earshot. “The only reason we’re allowed to join in the end of your party is because it’s a celebratory occasion, even if it’s not a Jewish holiday. I hate the Three Weeks so much. The worst part for me is not being allowed to go swimming during the hottest part of summer.”

“You can get sprayed by a hose or stand in a sprinkler,” Gary said. “Swimming isn’t a basic life necessity.”

“No, but modern swimming’s a lot different than it was in the ancient world. It’s not like going to a decadent Roman bathhouse. Pools are an easy way to stay cool and prevent overheating.”

Cinni reached into a metal tub full of ice cubes and pulled out a frozen chocolate bar. “What else ain’t you allowed to do?”

Barry sighed. “It’s more like what we are allowed to do. We can’t get haircuts, listen to live music, cut our nails, buy or make clothes unless they’re for a later celebration, eat meat, drink wine, wash clothes or wear freshly-cleaned clothes, plant shade and fragrance trees, or remodel or expand a home. We stayed so long in New York after we immigrated last year because of the Three Weeks. Our parents thought it’d be easier to observe the prohibitions there.”

“Since when do you feel this way?” Gary asked.

“It comes and goes.” Barry picked up a piece of watermelon. “They’re not so much religious doubts as not wanting to be so strict all the time. Why can’t I eat a piece of fruit cut with a knife from an unkosher kitchen or leave my head uncovered? Sometimes I don’t think there’s much difference between Conservative or Neolog Judaism and Orthodoxy.”

Cinni licked her popsicle stick and threw it on the grass. “Enough talk about boring stuff. Let’s light sparklers.”

Sparky, Barry, and Gary followed her to the basket of fireworks and selected two colors each. Cinni lit them with a small burning stick before choosing her own colors and holding them to a bonfire. Now this was a perfect way to close out the Fourth of July, being together with friends, having a full stomach, and watching a beautiful array of dancing colors in the night sky.

WeWriWa—The Smalls’ Shavuot menu

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Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

This week’s snippet comes from Chapter 19, “Happy Shavuot,” of the book formerly known as The Very Next and published last spring as Movements in the Symphony of 1939. Last week I described the table itself, and now you’ll get to read about all the delicious foods on offer. I know many people really enjoy my food-themed scenes.

Cinnimin Filliard’s father helped to bring a German Jewish family to America from Amsterdam in 1938, and they’ve been living in the guesthouse ever since. Their youngest child, Sparky (real name Katherine, changed from Katharina), shares Cinni’s attic bedroom in the main house, and has become her best friend.

Cinni, who has no love lost for her family’s nominal religion of Methodism and finds Judaism much more fun and colorful, is thrilled to be invited to celebrate Shavuot with the Smalls (originally the Brandts). Her friend Kit’s father is also a guest.

Just prior to this excerpt, Cinni saw strange things that looked like bread doughnuts on a silver platter, and Mrs. Small explained they’re bagels from Philadelphia, to be served with lox, cream cheese, tomatoes, and lettuce.

Cinni hoped her eyes weren’t wider than her stomach as she began heaping her plate high with a little of everything offered. She couldn’t complain for lack of meat when she had salmon broiled in butter, bagels loaded with the promised toppings, plenty of smoked salmon by itself, scalloped potatoes cooked in cheese, mushrooms stuffed with chopped walnuts, garden salad with chunks of goat cheese, fruit salad with shredded coconut flakes, and artichoke quiche. There was so much sumptuous food from which to feast, Cinni hardly cared there were some artichokes in the mix. If only her mother cooked such wonderful food. Mrs. Filliard put in some effort for Christmas and Easter, but didn’t offer anything nearly so grand.

“Which cheesecake would you like to try first?” Sparky asked after the supper plates and silverware were cleared away.

“Which cheesecake? You mean you’ve got more’n one? Lemme have a slice of all of ’em!”

Cinni’s eyes almost fell out of her head as Mrs. Small and Gary brought out cheesecake after cheesecake—the normal plain variety, chocolate, chocolate chip, lemon, orange, strawberry, raspberry, double chocolate.

The ten lines end here. A few more follow to complete the scene.

Her mouth watered even more when Mr. Small and Barry lugged out canisters of ice-cream and bowls of toppings, followed by even more desserts upon which to feast.

“My folks never serve nearly so much dessert. I’m gonna weigh twenty more pounds after tonight.”

“We’re having ice-cream sundaes at synagogue after services tomorrow,” Sparky said. “Plus lots more cheesecake.”

“I almost wish I could tag along!”

WeWriWa—The Smalls’ Shavuot table

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Welcome back to Weekend Writing Warriors and Snippet Sunday, weekly Sunday hops where writers share 8–10 sentences from a book or WIP. The rules have now been relaxed to allow a few more sentences if merited, so long as they’re clearly indicated, to avoid the creative punctuation many of us have used to stay within the limit.

Because the holiday of Shavuot is this weekend, I’m sharing something from Chapter 19, “Happy Shavuot,” of the book formerly known as The Very Next and published last spring as Movements in the Symphony of 1939. It took over a year after the e-book release, but now it’s finally available in print as well.

Cinnimin Filliard’s father helped to bring a German Jewish family to America from Amsterdam in 1938, and they’ve been living in the guesthouse ever since. Their youngest child, Sparky (real name Katherine, changed from Katharina), shares Cinni’s attic bedroom in the main house, and has become her best friend.

Cinni, who has no love lost for her family’s nominal religion of Methodism and finds Judaism much more fun and colorful, is thrilled to be invited to celebrate Shavuot with the Smalls (originally the Brandts). Her friend Kit’s father is also a guest.

The Smalls had set their table as nicely as they’d set it for the other holidays Cinni had joined them for. This time, they had a yellow tablecloth with evergreen-colored embroidery, and white china with green leaves around the perimeter. Cinni also liked their centerpieces, several vases of red and yellow tulips. They were humbler flowers than the roses and baby’s breath they’d had for Rosh Hashanah and Pesach. She didn’t like bouquets all that much, since they seemed such a waste of money when they wilted before long, but if flowers had to be used, she preferred down-to-earth ones like tulips and wildflowers.

“You ain’t using your other fancy china this time?” Cinni asked as she pulled out a chair between Barry and Sparky. “You’re lucky you had enough money for more’n one set. I don’t think my family had more’n one even when we were rich. One set is all you really need, unless you’re uppity rich snobs like the Hitchcocks or Malspurs.”

“My family has several sets of tableware!” Mr. Green protested.

The ten lines end here. A few more follow to finish the scene.

“I hope you don’t think we’re uppity. Having more than enough money to afford things like that means more to me than you’ll ever know.”

“Oh, no, I wasn’t talking about nice rich people like you. I meant snobs like the Hitchcocks and Unicorn-Mitchells.”

Gary smirked. “I’m glad the Unicorn-Mitchells go to private school, since I’d never be able to keep a straight face if one of them were in my classes. Is the first part of their name really Unicorn, and why did no one ever think to change it in all these years?”

“Part of their family tree must be German, Austrian, or Swiss–German,” Mr. Small said. “Einhorn is a fairly common surname, and means ‘unicorn.’ Or they could be Dutch, since Eenhorn is also a fairly common surname. I assume someone changed it after immigration, though I’m not so keen to blend into the host culture I’d change my name to Unicorn.”

An adolescence spent running all over Europe

Note: This is edited down from a 1,774-word book review I originally wrote for my old Angelfire site around 2004–06.

This memoir by Maia Wojciechowska is the story of how she, her mother, and her two brothers spent the first half of WWII going from country to country, while her father was with the Army as a pilot and waiting for the safest moment to join them. Several scenes inspired things in my books, like their escape on the train on the first day of the invasion of Poland, and when they’re smuggled over a border in potato sacks in a truck.

On 1 September 1939, Maia hears and sees planes flying overhead, and thinks one of them may be her father. She’s happily running along with her new Doberman puppy and is heartbroken when her dog is suddenly felled by a bomb. This makes her very angry at the Nazis, a hatred which lasts the entire rest of the war.

Maia’s mother decides to leave for France (where her husband has already left for) with her three children—Zbyszek (Zbigniew), Maia, and obnoxious little Krzys (Kryzsztof). But the train, one of the last few allowed to leave Poland, is constantly being stopped because of the incessant bombs. Outside, large groups of people are fleeing on foot. Zbyszek and Maia laugh about how much the train will stink if it’s hit by a bomb, since the last thing a person does before dying is defecate.

Eventually, they have to get out and start walking too, since the tracks are destroyed by bombs. During one air raid, Maia gets in a lot of trouble because she stands right out in the open as a plane drops bullets and smaller bombs, and keeps flying right over her as she stands there calmly. After this, they board another train which also eventually gets stopped because of more bombed-out tracks, but when they reach Łódż on foot, they’re able to board a train that takes them to France, where they previously lived for a year.

They live in several places in France, both before and during the Nazi occupation. For awhile, the children play war with their new friends, also refugees from Poland, including twin boys. They have stockpiles of weapons, which they found abandoned by the French army, and pretend to die from being shot at, after they spend the more important parts of their meetings discussing how they’re going to exact revenge on Germany and France and how they’re going to save Poland. The twins like to pretend to die in one another’s arms.

When all the other Polish families are evacuated, Maia and Zbyszek sneak a machine gun and ammunition into their apartment to shoot the oncoming Germans and the traitorous French who are hugging them and giving them flowers, but their mother sees the gun and wrestles it away from them. Maia also gets into trouble at school, once when she beats a boy who tried to lift her dress and another time when she pretends to not understand French, till she gets the principal as her teacher, who knows from her mother that Maia knows and understands French quite well.

Maia barely goes to school at all, since she’s constantly playing hooky, staying home with colds, or being punished by being made to stand behind the blackboard or outside because she won’t talk. Several schools throw her out because she’s absent so much, and because she refuses to participate. Maia and Zbyszek swore an oath to never speak to a French person for the duration of the war, nor to speak French, and they’re keeping to it. Maia only breaks it when their mother is briefly arrested after they arrive in Vichy France, and she asks how long she’ll be in there.

During the time in France, they also live in the same hotel as a mysterious and somewhat creepy older woman, who tries to seduce the confused Zbyszek.

Maia has her share of unthinking moments too, like when they’re going to Spain and she’s entrusted with a hatbox containing a teddybear stuffed with money and jewels, totalling more than $4,000. The money and jewels are from fellow Poles in Lisbon, who want to send packages to their relatives back home. Everything is going according to plan, until she loses sight of her family at a train station and gets on the wrong train. It’s going to Madrid too, but won’t arrive at the same time, as Zbyszek tells her as he runs alongside the departing train. Maia begins talking to a man sitting next to her during the ride, and when she gets off and rejoins her family, her mother is angry and horrified that Maia somehow let him make off with the teddybear without her realising it. He opened the window so she could exit faster, and when she turned around to introduce this handsome stranger to them, he was gone.

Eventually, the family are leave France for Portugal. However, this is only temporary, and they soon fly to London. The father joins them at this point, and it’s hard getting used to him being back in their lives and to living in a strange new place, with new schools, new people, and a new language. Maia proudly tells anyone who tries to speak to her that she’s Polish and doesn’t wish to learn English. The moment she left France, Maia went back to speaking French. There’s no more reason to keep the pact outside of France, and she’s not speaking French to actual French citizens. However, she still doesn’t want to speak English, and settles on a Catholic boarding school where everything is taught in French.

On the ship to America, which takes off in November 1942 after a lengthy delay, Maia gets the idea to commit suicide romantically, since she’s in the midst of unrequited love, and decides she’ll die by the cold winds. She desperately loves a handsome young soldier, and the night before they’re to reach America, where her father has been assigned a post in Washington at the Polish Embassy, she goes on deck and ties herself to a post with her scarf. She would’ve taken her clothes off to be even more romantic, but she doesn’t like her body.

Zbyszek comes upon her standing on deck at dawn, having read her suicide note, and laughs at her plan. “Are you going to freeze your ass off?” Maia abandons the freezing to death suicide after he laughs at her and volunteers some information which deeply shocks her, and she goes back down to her private cabin. It’s coming up on five in the morning, when they’re due to dock, but she doesn’t want to be among all the other people coming up to see New York as they slowly come in for their landing. Just like everything else she’s done over the past three years, and her entire life before that, she wants to be different.

I really love Maia because she’s her own person and a tomboy, not a docile girly-girl who stays out of trouble. Like many tomboys through the ages, Maia wishes she were a boy, because of the freedom and increased opportunities available to boys. She doesn’t get along well with her mother either, which I also relate to.

The Executed Renaissance (Розстріляне відродження)

My IWSG post is here.

Khrushelnytskyy family, early 1930s. Six of the people in this photo were murdered by Stalin’s thugs.

The Executed Renaissance is a term coined by Polish publicist Jerzy Giedroyc in a 13 August 1958 letter to Ukrainian literary critic and essayist Yuriy Andriyanovych Lavrinenko. In the letter, Mr. Giedroyc proposed this as the title for an anthology of Ukrainian literature of 1917–33.

“On the title. Maybe it would be good to give as a general name: Executed Renaissance. Anthology 1917–1933, etc. The title would sound spectacular then. On the other hand, the modest name Anthology can only facilitate penetration behind the Iron Curtain. What do you think?”

Jerzy Giedroyc, 1906–2000

The title was accepted, and the anthology was published in Paris in 1959, in the magazine Kultura, which Mr. Giedroyc had founded and was editor-in-chief of. Many Ukrainian emigrants had been published in this magazine, and it was instrumental in helping to reconcile Poles and Ukrainians.

Mr. Giedroyc sent review copies to the Writers’ Union in Kyiv and Ukrainian Soviet magazines at the editors’ expense, and took every chance he got to send it behind the Iron Curtain, both legal and illegal.

Since then, the term Executed Renaissance has expanded to refer to the great flowering of literary, cultural, artistic, musical, theatrical, philosophical, cinematic, intellectual, and spiritual life in Ukraine in the 1920s and 1930s after so many centuries of being under foreign heels and unable to express their native culture and use their own language. Many of these people were murdered during the Great Terror of the 1930s.

A good percentage of the Executed Renaissance weren’t from wealthy or upper-middle-class families, and so hadn’t had the luxury of a good education, or even any education at all. They had to learn about great art, literature, music, and other culture on their own initiatives, in between working on farms and in factories, serving in the military, and just trying to survive war and famine.

Their subsequent creations were all the more amazing because they were self-taught.

Literary association Lanka, 1924. Three of the people in this photo were murdered by Stalin’s goons.

For the very first time, a generation of intellectuals, writers, artists, and musicians came from the real world. They knew what it was like to work for a living, struggle for everything they got, and live without luxuries. When they wrote about peasants and the working-class, they based it on personal experience instead of romantic ideals and secondhand information. These weren’t pampered rich kids and champagne Socialists.

Many of their creative works prominently featured rebellion, independent thought, existentialism, and expressionism.

Members of VAPLITE, Free Academy of Proletarian Literature, 1926. Six of the people in this photo were murdered by Stalin’s goons; another committed suicide, physically and mentally broken by the Holodomor and the start of political repression

When Stalin took full power and eliminated all competition, a wave of terror started, and Ukrainian culture and language were once again repressed. Those who were lucky escaped the USSR, while others felt forced into unhappy silence or writing propaganda. Some chose suicide. Most of the rest were arrested on false charges, tortured, and shot or sent to the GULAG.

A great deal of literature now circulated through samizdat (clandestine, underground publication and distribution) and tamizdat (publication abroad after being smuggled out). Some works were forever lost.

Union of Peasant Writers, 1924. At least four of the people in this photo were murdered by Stalin’s thugs, and another died in the GULAG.

Most Great Terror victims were posthumously rehabilitated after Stalin’s death, and some managed to survive the GULAG. However, that didn’t undo the massive cultural loss. Untold numbers of a bright, talented generation with so much creative and intellectual potential were murdered. Some scholars estimate 30,000 Ukrainians were in the Executed Renaissance.

Just a few of the fallen:

Mykola Hurovych Kulish (6/18 December 1892–3 November 1937), playwright, teacher, WWI and Russian Civil War veteran

Mykhaylo Vasylovych Semenko (19/31 December 1892–24 October 1937), Futurist poet

Mykhaylo Boychuk (30 October 1882–13 July 1937), painter, founder and leader of the Boychuk school of art

Irchan Myroslav (né Andriy Dmytrovych Babyuk) (14 July 1897–3 November 1937), poet, novelist, playwright

Lyudmyla Mykhaylivna Starytska-Chernyakhivska (17 August 1868–1941), poet, playwright, novelist, died en route to a Kazakh GULAG at age 73. Her sister Oksana died in the GULAG in 1942, in her late sixties.

Ivan Vasylovych Lypkivskyy (14 August 1892–13 July 1937), painter

Valerian L’vovich Polishchuk (19 September/1 October 1897–3 November 1937), poet, novelist, literary critic

May all their memories be for an eternal blessing.

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