Sailing Through My Memories

Оформление обложки Vivago

© Yuri Yakunin, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0070-3321-3

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

By the Sea of My Memory

Foreword (Before I begin)

I have done many things in my life — some good, some not so much. If those situations repeated, there are things I wouldn’t do again, but in many cases, I would act exactly as I did before.

Some names, of course, have been changed, and events have been trimmed down. My goal is not to write an autobiography; rather, I wish to describe the vivid moments of my childhood that warm my soul today. And for my children and grandchildren, who did not live through those times — I want to tell them about the important things we call roots! I believe many will find it interesting to read about Georgian everyday life in the sixties through the eighties, as perceived by a Russian person.

In a child’s memories, there are no gray colors — unlike the monotony and predictability of an old man’s life today. The passing childhood years have woven themselves into a bright tangle, and it would be a pity if this rainbow vanished with me, just as an ordinary rainbow disappears after the rain. However, while a rainbow after the rain can be captured in a photograph, the rainbow of life must be written down. For the future will determine what is true and what is mere chaff — and for that, the future needs that very abundance from which to make a choice, both artistic and historical!

Life, unfortunately, is not just a cloudless, rosy-eyed childhood. It is also years of mental, spiritual, and physical struggle, where everything is truly tough, sometimes even cruel. For mistakes — often not even your own — you have to pay not with a simple “time-out” or a father’s belt, but sometimes with years of loneliness, or even lives. And if, God willing, this cup passes you by, it does not mean your life was lived correctly. Life is long, and we are not angels — anything can happen.

I will try to describe my ordinary life situations and the experiences associated with them, whether my actions were right or wrong. If this makes someone stop and think, and helps them avoid mistakes, I will be very glad.

Once again, I want to say that I do not intend to make excuses, though perhaps in some places I should. As they say, you can’t throw a word out of a song; history has no reverse gear and no subjunctive mood.

Sometimes it seems to me that while proving a truth, we often trample that very truth into the mud. While saving one person, we may inadvertently drown a dozen others. We can beat our chests in passion, pouring out the “naked truth,” making many shed bitter tears while insisting on our own righteousness and rejecting someone else’s truth — though who is to say whose truth is “truer.”

I am not a lawyer, and certainly not a clairvoyant; I do not intend to use examples to show how one should or shouldn’t act. I will write it as it was, and let everyone decide for themselves where the truth lies. And do not try to cast a stone at me — let him who is without sin cast the first, and I am certainly not without it.

I will begin writing in the third person; later, I think, it will settle into place!

So…

Once upon a time, there lived a family — like many others, and yet not quite. A grandmother and grandfather, a mother, a father, and a little brown-eyed boy. And all would have been well, but tragedy struck — the father was gone. The mother remained, but after an accident and her injuries, it was as if she were no longer there. And so, the grandmother became the mother, and the grandfather became the father. From here on, I will still write “grandfather” and “grandmother,” but that is for the sake of the story — in life, until their very last days, I called them Mom and Dad.

The boy grew up kind, sensitive, intelligent, and very quick — so much so that the nickname “Tarzan” stuck to him in the courtyard.

He loved, with all his heart, the kindest person in the world — his Jewish grandmother, with wrinkles in the corners of her eternally smiling eyes, smelling of delicious dinners, forgiving his every mischief, and infinitely caring. And his grandfather — a retired Russian colonel, strict, courageous, devoted to the Motherland and Communist ideals, with eyes as steely as his character. He felt warm and safe with them.

Once, when his grandfather’s sisters came to visit from Russia, the men had to sleep on mattresses spread out on the floor. He lay with his grandfather on the uncomfortably hard mattress and couldn’t fall asleep. The moon, hidden by clouds, tried to peek into the open window; it was a bit eerie, but his grandfather lay nearby — so big and brave, with his crew-cut hair (the boy would dream of having such a haircut all his life, but… those treacherous cowlicks!). It was enough to press against him, and all fears evaporated. That night, for the first time, he thought: what if Grandpa or Grandma were gone?

It was such a powerful emotional shock that he began to wake his grandfather, crying, and only calmed down when his grandfather gave his word that he wouldn’t die! Perhaps a person’s first gray hair appears on exactly such a day or night.

The grandfather’s sisters openly disliked the grandmother — that was where the roots of everyday anti-Semitism showed. This didn’t fit in his head; it seemed like the greatest injustice. When one of the sisters bought him a metal tin of lemon drops, he said loudly, looking at his grandmother:

— My MOM — it was from that moment on that he began calling her Mom — always buys me chocolate “Bears,” and I don’t eat such junk!

The way his grandmother squeezed his hand under the table is impossible to forget. The pride he felt from that squeeze was beyond comparison. He had protected his grandmother, something his grandfather hadn’t done. From then on, no one ever dared to speak ill in his presence of those he loved or those who were his friends.

But the world is not without “kind” people, and the question of “Mom” and “Dad’s” age always hung over the child’s head. He couldn’t grasp the full depth of the question, but subconsciously felt an anxiety that made him bristle and harshly — as much as a child can — cut off any attempts to crawl into his soul. This painfully sharpened sensitivity, which made him instantly react to any phrase that seemed to belittle his or his loved ones’ dignity, remained for life — like a complex. And this complex hindered communication, often leading to a total rupture of relationships.

Family

My family. I write this without claiming bibliographic or historical rigor, nor do I seek critical acclaim. I write because I want my loved ones — those so dear to me — to be more than just plaques in a cemetery. I want them to be recognizable and honored, as they should be, in the memories of my children and grandchildren who never had the chance to meet them!

Grandmother — a “Yuzovka girl” from the beginning of the last century, born into a large Jewish family. She started working at the age of nine and paid five kopecks to a high school girl to teach her how to read and write. She was beautiful, green-eyed, with purely national features — her nape and legs — and a straight, petite nose. She was gentle but proud, and she absolutely doted on her grandson: — He’s just like me!

Grandfather — a mysterious figure in many respects. A Russian village boy who had been a “drushka” (a child hired by wealthy families to be a companion to their own children). He finished only three years of a parish school, but the teaching there must have been of an extraordinary level. In his fifties, my grandfather possessed calligraphic handwriting, absolute literacy, could play Chopin or Bach on the piano, and was fluent in Polish. Despite being a Communist-athetist, he kept a silver body-cross from the Life Guards Preobrazhensky Regiment in a small box alongside his medals. Short, lean, gray-eyed, militarily organized, and physically resilient. He was fair, level-headed, and knew how to keep his word like no one else.

The childhood of the sixties — people had already stopped listening for nighttime footsteps on the stairs or the rumble of a lone car engine in the dark. My grandmother, with an altered passport where “Bella Semyonovna” stood in place of “Betty Samuilovna,” could calmly visit the synagogue once or twice a month without fearing for her husband’s career. Meanwhile, my grandfather would argue passionately with friends about the cult of personality, “excesses,” and blocking detachments.

I often heard my grandfather use insults like “seksot” (secret informant) toward some neighbor. I was surprised by Grandmother’s calm reaction to such “cursing” and couldn’t understand how these old neighbor women could interest anyone from a “romantic” perspective. I remember my grandfather’s stories about the war, after which I would lose myself in a thick, crimson-bound book titled For the Motherland, For Stalin. I grew up on the examples of Gastello, Talalikhin, Vanya Golikov, and the Kosmodemyansky siblings. The book contained sketches of all the Heroes of the Soviet Union and described their heroic deeds. I admired three-time heroes like Pokryshkin and Kozhedub with their 59 and 62 downed planes, unaware that in the German army, Gerhard Barkhorn had 301 and Wilhelm Batz had 237… — but well, one’s own are always the greater heroes! It is only much later that you begin to understand that the history of wars is usually written — or even rewritten to suit certain personalities — by the winners.

All of this did not pass me by; it played a significant role in my formation as a person.

Caught between “two opposites” — the adoration, permissiveness, and doting of my grandmother on one side, and the stern, sobering gaze, the personal example of patriotism and duty, and the reading of Perelman’s countless “Entertaining” books on the other — I grew up kind, open, and inquisitive, with a sharpened sense of justice. Yet, at the same time, I was stubborn, headstrong, and independent in my actions.

And everything would have been fine, but as luck would have happened, I was a desperate mischief-maker. Because of this, “battles of local significance” would sometimes flare up between my guardians, where even pieces of crockery were put into play. Grandmother usually emerged victorious. Her famous saying, whenever I didn’t want to go to school and feigned illness, was worth its weight in gold: — It’s no big deal, let him stay home; he’ll just become a professor one day later… — a fact she, of course, never doubted for a second.

From early childhood, I could indulge in my favorite pranks to my heart’s content. There were a great many of them, and if a day was lived “correctly,” it meant the day was wasted!

One such prank was building a “Headquarters” out of the dining table, chairs, and a folding cot… All this was covered with blankets. Inside the HQ, I’d place a pillow on the carpet, a few favorite toys, my grandfather’s field binoculars (the Zeiss maritime ones hung around my neck), a hunting bandolier with spent shells, a mess tin, and… a desk lamp with a green lampshade, which was kept on because it was a bit dark and scary under the table! Two of my grandfather’s hunting rifles were poked through narrow slits (embrasures), and the surrounding space was entangled in “barbed wire” made from Grandmother’s wool yarn balls. Anyone passing by the HQ — guests included, and avoiding it was impossible — was obliged to present a pass to the Chief of Staff himself. The Chief wore a colonel’s tunic that dragged along the floor, size 42 cowhide boots on stiff legs, carried a map case, and had a chest full of regalia — 28 pieces in total. The Order of Lenin and the two Orders of the Red Banner were not to be touched — they were sacred!

Among my grandmother’s favorite games was “going to school.” I would take an old briefcase and go to the back stairs, where I would sit for an hour or two “at my lessons.” During this time, Grandmother could calmly go about her chores without worrying about me. Then there were “partisan raids for provisions,” where she would sneak me everything she wanted me to eat. Like a magician, Grandmother skillfully used many of my games to suit her needs.

But there were things she endured only out of her boundless love for me: like diluting the kerosene in the stove with water, after which the wicks had to be replaced; getting Vaska the cat drunk on valerian drops; or “occupying” the Singer sewing machine… she stoically bore much.

Then there were the “unique masterpieces.” We lived on the third floor and had a balcony with a railing. Usually, my head wouldn’t fit through the bars, but one day I managed to maneuver it through anyway. The joy was indescribable. I could see not only what was happening under the balcony but also what was going on with the neighbor below — a cranky old woman who did nothing but bang her mop against her ceiling whenever she thought I was stomping too loudly. Grandmother said she did it because she didn’t like children. But soon, joy turned to bewilderment — my head wouldn’t come back out. My ears were in the way.

I didn’t dare cry for help, knowing that Grandfather’s rawhide belt might pay a visit to my backside before my head was freed. So, I stood there bent over for ten minutes until Grandmother, sensing a suspicious silence, peeked out onto the balcony. Throwing up her hands and wailing something unintelligible, she tried to help, but — “the spectacles didn’t work at all.” Then she brought me a small chair, upon which I sat with great relief. My head remained sticking out from the third floor.

Grandfather didn’t even think of the belt; he laughed until he cried for about five minutes. I calmed down and even ate an apple through the bars. No tricks helped: not greasing the bars with oil, nor trying to pry the thick metal apart by hand. Gradually, the neighbors gathered. They brought a second chair for Grandmother and periodically gave her valerian. My head was still outside. Various solutions were proposed, from a hacksaw to welding. “Hacksaw” was mentioned most often, but we simply didn’t have one. Salvation came unexpectedly: a neighbor, the only owner of a “Moskvitch” car in the yard, arrived and pried the bars apart with a car jack. If you look closely from the street, you can still see those bent bars today.

There was much else: my aunt’s metal embroidery hoops, brought all the way from Moscow, were once forced around my waist, leading to a long and sharp debate. Grandmother proposed cutting the hoops; my aunt proposed cutting me, assuring everyone that her suggestion would rid the family of all its problems at once. But since neither side could agree, butter was brought in. My body was greased heavily, and through universal effort, both the hoops and I remained intact.

I nailed Grandfather’s galoshes to the floor in the hallway; I launched “smoke rockets” made of old film reels into neighbors’ open windows; and many other pranks for which I didn’t get much of a “scolding.” I was simply made to read something aloud for an hour. Having grown accustomed to it, I later started reading even without being punished.

Only two things in the house were untouchable and therefore incredibly desirable: the typewriter my grandfather used for side jobs (editing candidate and doctoral dissertations) and a captured German Darsonval device. Because of that device, I had to whine once or twice a week about “pains in my legs.” Then, with a solemnity and caution worthy of Fabergé eggs, the device would be brought down from the cupboard. With crackling and tingling, a massage would be performed using glass attachments that glowed with mesmerizing, multicolored neon lights inside. Of course, I eventually got my hands on them too. But when it was discovered (a jammed carriage or a broken glass tube), “scoldings” were not enough, and even Grandmother’s desperate maneuvers couldn’t save my rear from the belt.

But this cloudless period of my childhood wasn’t illuminated only by desperate mischief. There were, of course, less pleasant situations that were hard to avoid:

— Haircuts — with an old, manual, incredibly blunt clipper.

— Taking cod liver oil on Sundays.

— Bathing in “boiling water” with multiple rounds of stinging soap on my head.

The haircutting lasted several days because only a small part of my head could be shorn in one sitting before I, like the “Chief of the Redskins,” would break free from Grandfather’s embrace and escape to the safety of the street. The sight of my head, shorn in patches, was a common occurrence, so it didn’t evoke much emotion from anyone.

Cod liver oil… Well, who doesn’t remember it? Since the hungry post-war years, it was apparently the only way to replenish the body with necessary elements, and parents performed this “execution” with total devotion. After long arguments and Grandmother’s mostly unsuccessful attempts to soften the “fishy” suffering with a pickle, a lemon, or even jam, Grandfather proposed a wise solution. On Sunday morning, we drink a spoonful of the hated oil and then go to see popular science films in the small hall of the Rustaveli Cinema — with a mandatory stop at the grocery store in Building No. 1 on Rustaveli Avenue. At the corner by the entrance, there was a stand resembling an ice cream cart that sold small buns with custard inside (perhaps someone remembers them?). How delicious they were! No cod liver oil could eclipse their divine taste, savorily seasoned with a movie session! Even when the oil ran out, the Sunday cinema visits remained for a long time, for which I am deeply grateful to my grandfather. How much interesting and instructive information I learned over those years — and I might never have seen it, were it not for cod liver oil!

Bathing — this was the only procedure where I consistently and hopelessly lost! This usually pleasant activity was commanded by Grandfather, who managed to turn it into a regimental execution. Oh, I forgot the most important part. Our house was a communal one, corridor-style (more on its full glory below). The conditions were minimal — or rather, non-existent! A “bathroom” in our house was an irrational concept, something between a bourgeois relic (which was long gone) and a joy from the bright Communist future (which no one knew when would arrive). The procedure took place in the kitchen, in a multi-purpose tub. Water was heated in a bucket on… (think about these words! A couple of years later, man flew into space) a brick, wood-burning stove on the third floor of the capital city of Tbilisi, and then diluted to the required temperature.

Mothers usually test the water temperature with a gentle elbow; Grandfather, however, considered his index finger a thermometer just as good, which is why the water was usually about ten degrees higher than acceptable. Because of this, bathing turned into a semblance of drill practice on a parade ground, where the army motto reigned: — If you can’t, we’ll teach you; if you won’t, we’ll make you!

But while in the two previous cases there was room for maneuver — one could break away or strike a deal — in the latter, the situation was hopeless: you can’t run away in your birthday suit, and there was nothing much to negotiate. Therefore, only one option remained — to scream. To scream as long and as loud as possible, so that in front of the neighbors, HE would find it “excruciatingly painful” for the torments being inflicted upon the child. So, whenever the wail of a Jericho trumpet echoed through the house, all the residents knew — THEY ARE BATHING HIM!

The Street and the House of My Childhood

It was a world of its own, as different from today’s courtyards as a street market is from a boutique. In general, the Tbilisi courtyards of that time are something that defies verbal definition — much like the Odessa courtyards of the same era.

A Georgian courtyard is an orchestra of God-knows-what sounds, constantly playing as a backdrop for someone’s solo parts, the librettos of which featured an unimaginable variety, both linguistic and conceptual. The courtyard was a living organism that absorbed the full individuality of its residents. It was a theatrical performance — a sort of “one-courtyard theater.” The talent, temperament, character, facial expressions, timbre of voice, soulful warmth or callousness, refined cunning or black envy — all were composed of the collective traits of its inhabitants. Even the random passers-by — milkmen, bakers, rag-and-bone men, garbage collectors, sellers of sweets and kerosene, all of whom were known by face — added their own unique brushstrokes to the courtyard’s vibrant canvas. And the ice cream men — those coveted wizards with magical, white oval boxes slung over their shoulders and booming voices — what legendary visitors they were for us boys. Lord, I can still hear that ear-caressing, trilling, long-drawn, imploring yet beckoning, seductively sweet and oh-so-desired combination of words: — Eeee-skimo-maaa-rozh-niiii-na-paaaa-loch-keeee! (Eskimo pie on a stick). Today, all of that is gone, and the world has become poorer and paler!

Of course, Odessa folklore is unique, but it is well-known because one-sixth of the globe spoke the same language. Georgian courtyard folklore, however, is a parallel world — one that never intersects with Odessa’s, but is no less colorful, possessing an equally refined humor seasoned with accentuated, temperamental gestures. As for Georgian profanity — only the deaf-mute wouldn’t envy it. This folklore is less known only because the people are few in number, which is a pity!

The courtyards of that time were not like today’s landscaped spaces between high-rises, where nobody really knows anyone. Spaces that are traversed by anyone and everyone. Spaces that serve merely as the shortest path from point A to point B and nothing more!

The courtyard of my childhood was the best version of a communal apartment. Unlike the “kommunalkas,” people in the courtyards united by choice, with whom they wanted and when they wanted. Therefore, the envy, malice, bitterness, and misunderstandings typical of communal living gave way to a completely different type of relationship. A spirit of togetherness reigned there — teasing, bravado, mutual aid, games of backgammon and dominoes, and a peculiar kind of kinship found nowhere else. And those Sunday morning trips to the market, followed by an evening in a shish-kebab-and-wine “relaxation zone” that united everyone — they have long since sunk into eternity.

My house was a sturdy, four-story building with a corridor system. Among the city’s residents, it bore the proud name “The House of Pilots.” Originally, it was a flight school built in 1923, and like a regular school, each floor had a corridor with classrooms to the left and right. At the end of the long corridor stood the crown jewel — a shared toilet with a single water tap.

After the war, it became a residential building where each family occupied one or two “classrooms.” There were sixty-two families: fifteen on each floor and two in an annex in the yard.

The house had no natural gas, no trash chute, no kitchens, and not even a single shower for the entire corridor.

In the corridor, every room-apartment had a semblance of a kitchen, built however one could manage. Some had a cupboard with kitchen gear and bundles of onions, garlic, and peppers. There were fanciful washstands and tables with kerosene stoves or Primus burners where meals were prepared. Tubs, buckets, and basins for laundry and bathing hung on nails upon the walls. An essential attribute was a chair where, in between kitchen chores, the housewives would sit to share news and biting remarks about absent neighbors.

In this improvised “Babylonian kitchen” — which today is hard to even imagine — a showy matriarchy reigned. Yet, once past the room doors, it shifted into a strict patriarchy with unquestioning submission — a price paid for the corridor’s matriarchal concessions. The ladies clustered together for reasons known only to them, where they harshly and cruelly mocked those who were absent. But as soon as the targets appeared, the atmosphere of mockery instantly transformed into tender “sisterly” love and culinary mutual aid. They would even share their dinners if someone hadn’t managed to cook, always accompanied by the phrase: — Vasily Petrovich, try my cooking today, since your wife hasn’t had the time to cook for you!