Bread

As a child I recall seeing my grandmother go down on her knees in front of the icon each morning to recite the Lord's Prayer.

"Give us this day our daily bread . . ." I knew that Grandmother was talking to God about bread.

One of my earliest memories is of sitting on top of a wagon piled high with sheaves of wheat. We were returning home from the fields. I remember the horse's back, the wagon swaying, the wheels creaking, mosquitoes droning and the smell of dust and of warm, ripe sheaves.

When I was five years old my father got a job in the city. In time he earned every honor a workingman could. Half of the little chest at home is filled with citations he received. However, he yearned for the land all his life. Though I never ploughed a field, my father's longing was strangely close to my heart.

After the draught of 1947 there was no crop. We gathered acorns and a weed called goosefoot which was dried and pounded into a semblance of flour. The people in our village became bloated from hunger and began dying. The first to die were the strongest and healthiest men. My mother took the last of our treasures from the little chest and made a bundle of them. There were two lengths of Grandmother's homespun linen, my father's boots and the sacramental embroidered linen runners ... In the Ukrainian town of Shepetovka my father and I bartered the whole bundle for seventy-two pounds of wheat. That was all we brought back. We ground the grain into flour in a hand mill, but Mother did not bake any bread. Instead, she cooked us flour gruel. We could thus drink our main meal . . . After the new harvest my sister and I searched through the stubble for fallen ears. Mother made a loaf of bread no larger than a saucer, and we children sat by the oven wondering how long more it would take till it was done. When Mother took out the loaf she broke it in half and then burst into tears, weeping from joy, for she could now finally give us real food.

Bread! There is no greater task on earth than to sow seeds on time in tilled earth and then to harvest the ripened grain on time.

Flying over the plains in autumn one sees but two colors: the green of the woods and orchards and the yellow of the wheat fields. In the steppe regions this yellow panorama reaches clear to the horizon. There is a shimmering haze over all, and if you look at the combine-harvesters with the sun behind them you will see that they are enveloped in a cloud of white dust caused by the broken straw.

The whole steppe is dotted with these white clouds.

We were flying over the steppes of Kherson Region. After a short conference with the pilots we decided to land near one of the combines, ask the driver for a glass of water and get acquainted. We circled overhead. The driver slowed down and waved his cap, inviting us to land.

There were two of them. Their eyes and teeth gleamed in their dust-darkened faces. We introduced ourselves. They said they were Pyotr and Anatoly Nizbuzinsky, a father and his son.

"Have you been working together for long?"

They exchanged glances.

"Anatoly used to bring me my lunch here. He's been working with me for six years. And he's always ready to give his old man some advice."

Anatoly was a student of the Novo-Kakhovsky Agricultural School. The students went off for their summer field work each year and each year the director would call Anatoly in and say:

"Well? Do you want to work with your father again?"

"Yes."

Thus, father and son worked together during the busy harvesting season.

We sat down amidst the stubble. Pyotr pulled a cherry tart from his lunch box.

"Help yourselves," he said. "The dough was made from flour that was just milled...."

This was no time for long conversations. Every minute was precious.

"You come back when the harvest's in!" Anatoly shouted after they had climbed back on the combine. "We'll be done here in another three days. They're going to bring a barrel of wine to the lakeside. Or else, come and visit us at home. You won't have any trouble finding us. The address is Ingulets State Farm, Ingulets Village, Ingulets River."

Soon we were airborne again. A hot white cloud of dust had risen over the harvester operated by the father and son.