My grandmother; a little bit parent, a little bit teacher, and a little bit best friend.

A snippet from the chronicles of my grandmother’s childhood

What is the first thing that comes to mind when you think of childhood? I guess if you asked me, I would have to say it is a time in our lives free from worry and responsibility. It is a magical time of innocence when you are shielded from the hardships of life, oblivious to political regimes  and presented with plenty of opportunity for play and exploration. Days are filled running with outstretched arms in sunny fields, feeling invincible, like no harm can come your way. At least that is how I imagine it.

That wasn’t my childhood.

For as long as I remember, it was me and mum against the world, just doing our best to survive. You see, I was born and raised in Lithuania, an insect of a country in Europe—at least that is how I imagine Russia must have seen it—during a time of darkness and unimaginable horror.

It all started in 1940, when Lithuania was invaded by Russia. Innocent people were stripped of their homes, belongings, freedom and most importantly dignity. Not long after, I was born. I guess if you could have your pick, this wouldn’t be the most desirable setting for the imagined carefree childhood—but you don’t. And that’s fine, because despite the struggles I faced throughout my childhood, I grew up loved, above all by my mum. The love of my life.

Shortly after I was born, dad was arrested for treason and deported to Siberia. Wanted as the wife and daughter of a political criminal, mother and I were left to our own devices. And so our life on the run began.

My earliest childhood memory takes place on the day I had to lie that my mum’s cousin was my mum. I know, what a strange thing to lie about. Not my most treasured memory, yet I remember the incident well. I suppose you could say it’s one of those experiences that contribute to our sense of self as we carry the memory into adulthood. Whatever the reason, I recall being three or four years old, when mum and I were staying, or perhaps I should say hiding, at her cousin’s house. It was agreed that we would stay there under the pretence that mum is the house maid and I was to be treated as the daughter of the cousin. I had been taught that if the bad men were to come by the house asking who is my mum, I should point to my mum’s cousin. We had been living there for almost two years when one day the bad men finally turned up looking for us. As rehearsed, for months and days, I answered the question which could determine our fate at the time by pointing to my mum’s cousin. Not convinced by my answer, one of the bad men stepped closer toward me, and asked again, this time with a much sterner tone “Which of these two women is your mum?!”. The man’s presence carried a coldness that pervaded the air in the house. It’s as if time itself froze, and I could barely move. Terrified, I plucked up the courage to once again point at mum’s cousin and this time walked into her arms. It worked, The Soviet Union men believed me and vacated the house. Time resumed itself and the room once again became warm and cosy.