I am the eldest of ten children, born to a father who was 65 and a mother barely 18 or 20. A most remarkable arrangement, really — one that should inspire poets and playwrights alike. After all, what is a family without a bit of comedic tragedy? Among the first six of us, there was hardly a year separating one from the next. My parents must have fancied themselves industrious breeders, churning out offspring as if to meet a wartime quota.
Speaking of war, my childhood unfolded under the rather generous hospitality of the Russian occupation. People in small towns learned the art of the disappearing act, vanishing from one village to the next, always outrunning bombs, rockets, and the ever-diligent gaze of inspectors. We traveled by foot, a caravan of the unwanted. My mother, predictably cradling yet another newborn, moved forward with the stoic grace of a woman who had no choice. My aunt and grandmother, both sworn custodians of chaos, wrangled the younger ones. And I, the eldest, was the forgotten mule, bearing both the burden of existence and the curse of invisibility.
Hunger was a constant companion, but so was exhaustion, and between the two, they made a fine pair. If I grew tired, I kept it to myself. If I felt sick, I simply wasn’t. Pain was a luxury for those with fewer siblings and more attentive mothers. My most enduring memory is of a swollen fingernail, pulsating with infection. A tiny rebellion of flesh, daring to demand acknowledgment. It happened on one of our grand excursions for survival. The pain throbbed with each step, as if my finger were marching alongside me in protest. But in a world consumed by the shrill cries of babies and the panicked whispers of adults, my suffering was an inconvenient footnote.
When we finally reached a shelter that night, the pain had grown unbearable. A monstrous thing, red and angry, it mocked me in silence. Yet I dared not mention it. My mother, you see, had produced a son this time. Her first, a golden boy. And unlike the weary births of her daughters, this particular achievement rendered her something of a saint. She was swaddled in reverence, showered with praise, and shielded from all trivial concerns — like her daughter’s festering finger.
But despair has a curious sense of humor. Clutching my hand like a cursed relic, I found my way to my grandmother. A woman wise with age, wrinkled and weary, possessing all the sagacity one might expect from surviving a lifetime of absurdity. I presented my grotesque finger to her, hoping for a shred of mercy. She peered at it with a look of indifference, as though I had offered her a particularly unremarkable potato.
“Go press it to a red cow’s ass,” she declared, her voice as casual as if recommending a fine herbal remedy. Yes, a cow’s backside — nature’s cure-all. Forget the salves and poultices of the privileged; the crimson hindquarters of a farm animal were evidently the pinnacle of medical science in our parts.
I did not argue. I did not cry. Tears were a futile extravagance. I merely nodded, swallowed the bitter laughter that bubbled in my throat, and retreated to my corner. The lesson that night was clear, etched into the marrow of my bones. Pain was mine to bear. No declarations of agony, no cries for comfort. If my flesh rotted, it would do so quietly.
I learned then, with a clarity that defied my years, that I was my own caretaker. Because in a world of swollen bellies and scarred earth, what could be more absurd than the hope that someone might care?
inspired to aspire 