Yes, those were hard times, times of famine and cold. Our family was large. Parents were working, but made very little money. Our mother gave birth to eighteen children. I was the oldest. Out of them seven survived. Eleven kids died from diseases and hunger. I lived through each death very painfully and cried together with Mom. Now, I realize that I was five years old when I started taking care of my little brothers and sisters. Mom would wake up with the sunrise and nurse my little brother to put him to bed in a crib. Then she would drink a big bowl of Uighur tea with milk and salt – atkan-chai and take a huge hoe on her shoulder and leave to the field. I washed the dishes and cleaned the house. About this time, my little brother would wake up and start crying. I took him out of the crib, wrap him in a clean piece of cloth and took him to mother, into the field. My other little brother Nurum would walk with me. The distance from home to the field was quite long. It was very difficult to walk for us in a summer heat. When mom was on the other side of the field, she could hardly hear out cries. My little brother would cry of hunger. In the end, powerless, he would go to sleep. Mom did not have breast milk. It was not out of the ordinary. How would she get milk, if all she had for a day was a bowl of atkan-chai and hard work watering the field standing in mud up her knees? Mom would hurriedly feed the baby and leave into the field through mud while we would walk home in the most heat of the day.
Mom would come back tired. She could only toss a pillow right on the floor and lie down for a little. Probably, because she was always tired or because she could not feed children, she was often upset and had stricter demeanor comparing to father. After a while, mom would exit the room with the words: “I think I fell asleep, I feel tired today some how.” While mom rested, I would boil water for tea in kazan. Mom would drink a bowl of atkan-chai and then pick the baby up. We would all get quiet waiting for her orders. If we had flour at home, mom would add few eggs and prepare a soup with dough – suyuk ash. We would usually sweep the courtyard, in the middle of which we would spread a wool rug. Then we would put a narrow table on short legs – joza. In big old basin, we would burn kizyak so it can slowly smoke. Back then, we had a lot of mosquitoes. If there is no smoke that repels them, it would be impossible to seat outside in the courtyard. Seating at this big table, we ate prepared by mom dinner. In the morning, mom would take again a big hoe and walk to the field and I would stay home taking care of brothers. Father felt sorry for me. He would often say: “Poor daughter, other girls are playing, but you have no time for play.” With these words, he would kiss me, climb on his horse and leave for work.
Our parents were ones of those involved in founding collective farms. Father worked as a brigadier, and then became a mirab – responsible for water distribution. He worked in this position for rather long time. Mother was watering fields. Back then, they were called hectareshik. They both were activists of collective farm movement.
Mom was very responsible at work. She worked without pity for herself. Back then, people like her called Stahanovets. Mom was one of those. I remember how in appreciation of her labor, the kolhoz awarded her with a cow and a calf. Later, mom got sick and had to leave her job. Father had been working for long years in agriculture. Only in his last years, he changed his job to be a chef. At various occasions, be that a wedding or a funeral service, he would cook dishes with a special mastery, by which he deserved his neighbors’ respected nickname “Mashur-ashpaz” (Mashur-the chef).
Spring of 1940. I liked that time of the year. Snow had already thawed, and mint grass had started springing by the banks of aryks. With bright yellow dandelions bloomed. A little earlier, there were white blooms of apricot tree. In every courtyard, people were preoccupied with tidiness, cleaning their gardens and planting vegetables. Everyone was in a good mood, in their hearts was some unexplained warmth and joy.
All winter, people burnt stoves, took out ash and shoved snow. Of course, it gets annoying. Therefore, getting rid off all these chores, they recharged with the nature, breathing in the warm air of each spring moment. That year, Nurum was twelve and Masym turned ten. Once, two of them left for burning wood riding a donkey carriage. We collected mint grass, cloves and cooked green dumplings. We already had dinner, did the dishes, but brothers were still absent. Mom started worrying. It was getting dark. Suddenly, the brothers showed up. Nurum was walking holding donkey by the belts, but Masym was laying in the carriage over the burning wood. Father took Masym in his hands and carried him home. Suddenly, Masym started crying. We looked and saw a huge sting sunk in his body, impossible to take out with hands. Mom started crying:
- What to do? My poor little son! – She could not find her place. Meanwhile, she was pregnant, in her last month. Father found somewhere a horse carriage, and together with mom took Masym to hospital in Jarkent. I was crying not knowing for whom I should worry about more. We left just four of us: twelve-year-old Nurum, eight-year-old sister Hatam, three-year-old Abdusalam and I. We tuned the lights off and went to bed and fell into deep sleep. At midnight, I woke up from father’s voice:
- Patam, open the door, we came back.
I opened the door and saw only Dad with Masum, but Mom was not there. I was frightened. “Where is Mom, did she get sick?”
Father through a bundle of clothes on a bed and said: “Mom was taken by the doctors in a hospital. She probably got frighten form Masum’s wound. Go to her tomorrow, cook something and don’t forget about atkan-chai. She must have this tea, otherwise, you know, she will get a headache.”
After a while, father added:
- They took a sting out of Masum’s leg and stitched the wound up. They gave him medicine and said that he will get better. He took Masum to bed and he quickly fell asleep.
In the morning, I cooked some food, poured atkan-chai into a glass jar and went to town. Fortunately, one couple was going to Jarkent on a carriage and they took me with them. Went I got the hospital, of course, the food and tea got cold. When I asked a doctor about my Mom’s well being, she said:
- Your mom had a baby-boy.
Full of excitement, I gave the food to the doctor and run up to a window. Mom saw me and came up to the window. She asked about kids left at home. Maybe, she felt sorry for me, but she said any way: “You, girly, don’t come here any more. Just come when I they release me.” With these words, she went to bed and waving her hand at me. My heart sank looking at Mom. She was so weak and her weakness and pain were in her eyes. In that moment, I was overwhelmed with emotions:
“Mom! What a great word. In pain, you give birth to life, overcoming troubles, you raise children. They say it for a reason that mother’s heart is like high river!”
Not able to control my emotions, I harried back home.
- What will we name our brother? – I asked my father after he came from work. He pondered and answered:
- Azat, my girl. Allah permits, we will get free from life’s troubles and problems, since Azat means Freedom…
That is how, on March 27, 1940, a poor peasant Mashur had a son Azat.
From the very early childhood, Azat was growing as a boy with big head full of thick black hair. He had an attentive look and was vigorous and swift. He never said a lie, and was observant and hard working.
I don’t exactly remember what year, but we had a plague. People in big numbers got sick and died. Often, the whole families were buried. We all had it and recovered. Azat was the last one to get sick. Scared of whether or not his son will live, father asked dried cow skin from the kolhoz’ director. They softened the cow skin with boiled water and wrap Azat in it. I don’t know how long he was in it, but remember that parents did not slip and sat by him whole time. They were praying and asking the Lord not to take their son. At dawn, the child opened his eyes. I recall that father then said:
- Allah gave our son back to us.
Mom remained sited by Azat. The disease was deceitful. It could result in paralysis. Azat was ill for a rather long time. Besides, these were the times of famine. Mom was trying to give Azat the best piece, sacrificing her own and devoting all of her to son. She would tell him tales and different legends. Once, after Mom told him a story about Hizir-bova, a legendary old magician who grants wishes, Azat exclaimed: “If I were a ‘Hizir,’ I would give food and clothes to everyone.” From these words, mom was overwhelmed with emotions, squeezed her son to her chest and said: “Allah permits that you achieve your wishes.” Azat himself did not understand why he said that. After a while Azat recovered from illness. The day when Azat got up, Mom brought early melons from the field. I can still sense the aroma of those melons.
Parents gave me away to marriage with a man named Hevullam. He was from village Nadak. Hevullam was married once before, but his wife died. My parents were happy that I got settled, but that time, war had started. The Fascist Germany attacked the Soviet Union. The frightening time had begun. From each village, everyday, tens of people were leaving to the front line. This fate did not pass villages Pendgim and Nadak. Many men, leaving their old parents, families, relatives, were leaving to war. Only six months had passed since we got married. After that Hevullam got a draft notice, we went to Pengim. Mom prepared tea. Pouring it in bowls, Mom said: “Tomorrow, my nephew, my brother’s son, is leaving to the front line. Allah permits that he will come back safe.”
At that, he eyes were filled with tears.
- Father, mother, I also came to say “good bye.” I am also leaving to war tomorrow, - said Hevullam at that moment.
Mom wept. Father tried to stop her with words:
- Come back, son. We will be waiting for you. Don’t worry about your parents. We are here – all together. We will visit them. What can happen to us? Most important is that you will return home…
Having said these words, father inhaled deeply and wiped off a tear with a handkerchief. We did not wait for diner and harried home in Nadak. Father added for departure:
- Tomorrow, all of us will go to walk you out at river Usek’s bank.
Hard times had begun. People lowered their heads pressed with fell-over-them weight of sorrow. It was emptiness in the village, and sadness in the soul.
Atmosphere at home was rigid. Parents were walking in silence as if sensing grief. And that was what happened. After a year, arrived a death notice on Hevullam. These kind of papers started arriving in Nadak more and more. Parents were grieving for their children, but could not do anything. I also could not believe that there is no more of my Hevullam. But I was powerless to change anything! And at seventeen, I became a widow. My parents came to Nadak and talked Hevullam’s parents into letting me return to Pendgim. I started working in kolhoz… That is how war changed my life and not only mine…
