Selected Notes on Soviet Childhood from a Survivor

The Soviet Union spent a great deal of time and money attempting to turn children into model citizens.

The results were mixed.

In my case, there was simply a persistent series of misunderstandings.

This collection contains several incidents involving gladioli, books, milk, Pioneer camps, Lenin, firearms, organised recreation and other childhood hazards of the 1970s and 1980s.

None of the lessons described here should be relied upon.

Most of them ended badly.

I survived anyway.

Chapter 1 — The Gladiolus Problem

Or How to Transport a Bouquet Larger Than Yourself.

At six and three-quarters, I was the second smallest child in my kindergarten group.

I was a fussy eater, disliked sport, and was about to begin school.

My new school uniform had been purchased well in advance by my mother and was at least two sizes too large. The dress reached somewhere below my knees and suggested a future I had not yet grown into.

The academic side of school did not concern me.

I had already passed the reading test. The alphabet book I was asked to read aloud to the principal seemed embarrassingly easy.

The physical requirements of school worried me much more.

The night before my first day, I stood staring at my new school bag.

It was enormous.

The shiny brown leather, heavy straps, and rigid frame suggested less a piece of educational equipment than a mountaineering expedition. I had never carried anything of comparable size.

What I did not know was that the school bag would not be travelling alone.

Sometime that evening, my mother acquired a bouquet of gladioli.

Not flowers.

A bouquet.

The arrangement appeared to have been designed for the opening of a hydroelectric dam.

By morning, I was expected to transport both myself and the gladioli to school.

Whether my mother secretly wished I were larger or simply possessed an optimistic understanding of physics remains unclear.

What is certain is that a giant school bag on my back, combined with a gladiolus arrangement approximately my own height, created a logistical problem well beyond the capabilities of an ordinary six-year-old.

The reality of the situation became apparent the moment my mother kissed me goodbye and transferred ownership of both items.

The school bag immediately pulled me backwards.

The gladioli pulled me sideways.

For a brief period, I remained upright entirely through determination.

The walk to school was not long.

Under normal circumstances, it would have taken less than ten minutes.

These were not normal circumstances.

The flower arrangement led the way.

I followed.

By the time I reached the school gates, hundreds of children had gathered in the courtyard.

All carried flowers.

None, as far as I could tell, was attempting to transport an entire botanical installation.

The children looked excited, nervous, and slightly overwhelmed.

The flowers appeared confident.

There remained one final challenge.

The Grade 1 classrooms were located on the third floor.

The building had not originally been designed as a school. I never discovered its original purpose. I have always suspected it involved the training of mountain goats.

The stairs were enormous.

At six and three-quarters, they appeared to reach somewhere around my waist.

Progress was slow.

By the time I reached the final flight, the bell had already rung.

When I finally entered the classroom, lessons had already begun.

My teacher looked up.

Then she looked at the gladioli.

The effect was immediate.

Without hesitation, she relieved me of the arrangement and carried it to the front of the room, where a large vase stood on her desk.

The gladioli were installed with full military honours.

No other bouquet received similar treatment.

For the next two weeks, they dominated the classroom like a successful military campaign.

Either way, my mother's gladiolus had won.

That afternoon, I returned home and reported the outcome.

My mother was delighted. 

The start of the school year was an outstanding success.

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