Memoirs - Russia

Even though I'm probably not old enough yet to write my memoirs, I decided to do a few posts about my past and my family. The idea came from J-Girl's last post where she described her mother, and her feelings to her. I can TOTALLY relate. My mother was a knock-out in her younger years... even up until just recently. a petite, but mature and beautiful figure, impish, cute freckled face, red hair... No wonder my Dad fell in love with her at first sight. Her beauty and their passion for each other should have somehow been a blessing, but it caused a lot of emotional problems for me later on... but let's start in the beginning.
My Dad was in the Hungarian army. He was an engineer of radar technology, and he travelled a lot with his job. In 1964, he was sent to Russia (then USSR) to the Military University in the city of Vladimir, close to Moscow, to take some courses. He was living in Budapest, Hungary at the time and he was married with two teenage children. He was 41 years old, and though he was balding, he was still a very handsome and charming man. Blue eyes, black hair, amazing intellect and a sexual libido that far exceeded that of his wife's (she was raised by nuns and had strict schedules for when she had to "endure" his attentions - only one Wednesday and one Saturday a month, and if he wasn't home and missed it, there was no make-up make-out).
So when he was sent to Russia for months he thought it was the perfect opportunity for him to find a temporary girlfriend and have a little fun. There was a young waitress in the university cafeteria, her name was Zoya. She was a pretty woman, in her 30s, black hair, brown eyes, tall, statuesque body. He asked her out. When they were on their second date, Zoya said she needed to meet her little sister at the factory she was working at, so Dad went with her. He saw the small figure emerge from the factory (it was a place where they hand-painted Matryoshka dolls, you know, the ones where in a large wooden doll there is a smaller one, and a smaller one, they all open in the middle) and he later told me that he immediately felt a curiosity, or an "inkling" that he met the ONE. He looked at her face and he was disappointed - she looked very, very young, maybe 16. They went home, and she took off her coat - her firm, full breasts were well displayed in her sweater so he judged her to be around 18 at that point. He asked her age and was surprised to find out that she was 26 years old. They fell in love. Quickly, irrevocably. Zoya, seeing their attraction to one another, stepped aside graciously. She died of infection following throat surgery a few years later. That winter and spring, Vera (my Mom) and Joseph (my Dad) were in a haze of spring fever - they went boating, hiking, movies, restaurants. Their love was a passionate, white-hot wave that engulfed them both. When Joseph had to go back to Hungary after the semester was over, they both suffered greatly. They continued writing letters to each other, and my Dad took every opportunity to travel to Russia - he signed up for another year at the University. Their relationship lasted for four years when Vera told Joseph that she wants to have his child. She assured him that she wasn't going to ask for support, or help, or anything, she just loved him so much that she wanted to have a child with him. He agreed, and on a cold November night, I was conceived. Vera was very happy to be pregnant, even though her financial situation was dire, and she was ostracized at work for being an unwed mother. She gave birth to me on a hot July afternoon, after what seemed like endless hours of labour. She named me Ekaterina, after Catherine the Great. When she went home with me, there was no baby room, no plush toys, no bottles, no crib, no mobile - she was living with her sisters and they were very poor and couldn't afford anything. A neighbour gave her a crib which they set up in the corner of the living room. She had no milk due to poor nutrition, so another neighbour fed me - she had a baby boy a few months before and had more than enough milk. At the time, they lived in a small log house in the outskirts of Vladimir. The house had two rooms - a kitchen with dirt floor and a living room. The house was in poor condition - when I was just a few months old, the roof fell in (my Mom picked me up and took me to the kitchen just minutes before it caved in... Neighbours again helped fix the roof and they even built another room in the back. I can not imagine how difficult it must have been for Mom - water had to be brought in from the well at the street corner, in the winters, the chickens and rabbits lived in the kitchen, toilet was in the outhouse in the back of the yard. My Dad's picture was right above my crib from the first day on. He was very happy that I was born, in his first letter after my birth, he described how he cried when Zoya called him with the news, and how happy he was that I was a girl - he wanted a girl, because his relationship with my sister was always better than with my brother. Still, he was unable to visit at that time; he finished University and traveling between countries was restricted in those days, even within the Eastern Block. He frequently sent money and packages for us, on the picture I scanned in, I'm wearing a nightgown he sent me - it was several sizes too big, more fitting for a two-three year old. So it happened that I was two and a half before I met my father. My Mom told me when he came into the room and she asked: where is Papa? I pointed to the picture on the wall, like I was taught. I didn't know who the guy was that came in...
By then, my Dad's marriage was completely estranged. My brother got married, and my sister was 16. He tried to convince his wife to give him a divorce so he can marry my mother, but she would have none of it. It was finally my sister who advised her mom to let him go. So shortly before my third birthday, Mom and I travelled to Budapest to move there permanently. I don't remember the trip, and I only remember glimpses from that time - the first apartment building we lived in, the orange plaid blanket on my bed, colourful crayons my Dad bought me and the daycare with the toys.
With the resiliance of childhood, I got used to the new living situation quickly - it was much better to live in an apartment with hot/cold water running from the tap, a toilet, and heat in the winter. I picked up the language easily; in a matter of months, I was speaking both languages and would easily switch from Russian to Hungarian and back, depending on which parent I was speaking with.