Village Life ~ My Russian Yesterdays, Catherine de Hueck Doherty

By Catherine de Hueck Doherty, My Russian Yesterdays, Madonna House Publications, used with permission

Catherine was brought up in Russia and had many fond memories of her life there….a life that reflected simplicity, family, religion. After fleeing Russia during the Communist Revolution, she eventually came into the Catholic Church. Catherine prayed much that her motherland would be freed from Communist rule so that people could once again openly practice their faith.

Village Life

There was more to the village than just ownership of land. It was one of the most compact and closely knit human groups that ever could be found. To the eyes of a stranger it presented always the same structural pattern.

The church stood at the end of a neat row of houses that faced each other. It was shut off from them by a large piece of land that was called the village green. Its lawns rivaled some of the best in England.

This structural pattern was also a symbol of the deep spiritual life of the Russian peasant-which wholly centered around the church that so artistically dominated the landscape.

Each house had an individuality all its own. True, all the roofs were thatched, and most of the houses were built of huge logs, except in the southern part of Russia, where there are few trees and where the prairies or steppes stretched out their immense undulating acres as far as eyes could see.

There the huts were made of mud and, being whitewashed at least four times a year, stood gleaming, dazzling white under the straw roofs. Mud huts or log cabins, the houses were known as isbas, the Russian word for “cottages.”

Much of the skill and art of the owners went into the trimmings. Doors and window frames were beautifully carved and were often painted in vivid colors.

Their many original designs were the envy of city artists. The back yards were masses of flaming colors in the spring, summer, and autumn of the year, for Russians were both lovers of flowers and experts at gardening.

The front yards, usually enclosed in artistically wrought fences, invariably sported long golden rows of sunflowers. The seeds of these, dried and boiled, took the place of peanuts for the children.

Benches, laboriously carved, stood before each gate. Not being plagued by mosquitoes and black flies, folks sat cozily there at eventide, exchanging gossip and the news of the day.

Each house was usually reached via a few steps and a tiny veranda, and each veranda had an overhanging roof. The front door was painted in bright colors. It led into a cool hallway.

The majority of the houses, though, had just one big room. Dominating it was the oven. Russian ovens are their very own. I haven’t seen the like of them anywhere else.

The oven occupied a goodly part of the room, and was made with bricks covered over with cement or clay. Into their front was bricked-in an ordinary wood-burning range, on which the cooking was done.

Just back of the range was the bread oven. It rose almost to the ceiling. The top of it, and often the sides, were made in a sort of wide stairway, the steps of which served as beds for the children or older members of the family who needed this heat in the cold winter nights.

In the eastern corner of the main room, there would be benches, nicely carved, fitting the corner. Before them would be a big table. The whole would be blessed by a series of ikons of our Lady, our Lord, and such saints as were special friends of the household.

Before them would burn one or two vigil lights encased in silver or copper holders on long chains, hand wrought. The walls around the ikons would be decorated with white linen towels, intricately embroidered in the Russian housewife’s favorite cross-stitch, turning that corner into one of the most colorful parts of the room, and one of the most beloved and cherished.

The cooking utensils were mostly copper and iron, often handmade, and always highly polished. Pottery jugs, bowls, and plates, with many designs of varied colors, were used for everyday service, adding their artistic touch to daily life.

Beds were another witness to the many handicrafts of the Russian people. There was the hand-woven linen for sheets and pillowcases: many pillows, one on top of another, thrown over a much-embroidered counterpane; the carved wood of the bedstead. All this bespoke a love of beauty and an infinite patience in craftsmanship.

There were villages in Russia that were known for their beautifully lacquered furniture, their painting on wood, though the artist used the patterns of folklore and imagination only.

Some villages were skilled in copper and brass works, others in pottery and linen or embroidery and weaving or the making of toys.

Those arts, skills, and crafts were passed on from generation to generation, always perfected, always exhibiting originality and beauty. Even today, in the markets of the world, these original handmade things bring a high price.

Often, if the room were big enough, it would hold the weaving loom and the spinning wheels. Large wooden chests covered with intricate designs of brass and tin would contain the clothing of the family.

Conspicuous, usually, were the lovely hope chests that held the slowly accumulating dowries of fine linen and clothing, hand-made and worked all through the childhood and adolescence of the girls of the family.

Slowly the centuries-old pattern of days flowed through the village. Up at sunrise, to pray together-then off to the fields went the menfolk, while the women took up the round of household and farm chores.

 All through the working seasons lunch was brought to the men in the fields. Thus the main meal was usually the evening supper, eaten around five-thirty o’clock.

Often have I heard doctors and dentists exclaim about the teeth of Russian and Central European people, and wish that the Western nations, whose children and adults had such poor teeth, would adopt the diet of my people!

This always makes me smile. For I cannot quite picture Canadians or Americans, used to soft, precooked, prepared foods, wrestling with the diet of Russian peasants!

Take breakfast, for instance. As often as not it consisted of sour milk or cottage cheese, eaten with big chunks of rye bread made of coarsely milled grain and smeared with freshly churned butter, the whole washed down with milk or weak tea.

You see, sour milk was one of the mainstays of our diet, for rich and poor alike. We call it prostokvasha. It is simply prepared. Just let ordinary fresh milk sour at room temperature, in a big bowl, until it reaches the consistency of junket.

Then put it in the icehouse (or refrigerator) and let it become thoroughly chilled. Serve with breadcrumbs or plain. In the cities we added sugar to it, but in the villages, where sugar was a luxury (thank God), it was eaten plain.

Lunch would be much the same. Big sandwiches, made out of the heavy, wholesome rye bread (white bread was a Sunday delicacy) and cottage cheese, or ordinary homemade cheese, or fish smoked in one’s own smoking house, and hot tea or milk.

Supper consisted mainly of borsch, the celebrated Russian national soup, which is nothing more or less than vegetable soup made with meat stock and beetroots.

With it was served whole-grained buckwheat porridge or millet. Both porridges are prepared quickly and in the same manner.

Take three cups of grains (for a family of four) and pour on it six cups of boiling water. Add salt to taste, and stick the bowl into the baking oven at 400 degrees.

Half an hour later, you will be rewarded with a glorious dish. Soft, downy porridge, each grain standing out alone, will fill your plate. Put on it nice big chunks of butter, or pour milk on it. Your teeth will grow white and strong. Besides, you will know you had a real stick-to-your-ribs meal. We call these porridges kasha.

Borsch and kasha were the mainstay of Russia, plus the rye bread, the gallons of fresh milk, the fresh butter, and the tea with berry jam, made the previous summer-or a variation of this, with the kasha serving as a bed for a nice chunk of boiled beef that came out of the borsch!

Wholesome, simple meals these are, with oceans of vitamins in the soup, from the slow-boiling vegetables and the meat stock. And the bread, indeed, has the staff of life in it, undevitalized and nourishing.

Vegetables were eaten in quantities, especially boiled beets, carrots, and cabbage. The latter was often salted for the winter and eaten as sauerkraut; another Russian favorite dish full of vitamins.

For dessert we had nuts and raisins. There was very little candy or sugar. Cake, as served here, was unknown. But we had many coffee cakes, made with yeast, out of whole-grained flour. Pies were a mystery too, but perogies were a Sunday treat. These, as I have mentioned, were made out of yeast dough and were filled with sweetened cottage cheese or with cabbage cooked in butter until nicely browned or with mushrooms freshly gathered in the woods or even with minced meat-hamburger style, with onions!

All these would make my mouth water. I wonder if they would appeal to the sophisticated and refined palates of my friends.

Be that as it may, the fact remains that because of this diet the teeth of the people needed little or no attention. My aunt, at sixty, boasted she had all her own teeth. But no one was surprised, for there were millions of others in her age group who could also exhibit every tooth that nature had endowed them with.

Strangers would recognize easily all the usual farmer’s buildings but one. They would quickly spot the barn, the pigsty, the chicken coops. But a little house standing rather close to the main isba would baffle them. Yet it was an essential for every Russian household.

It was called a bania, which means “bathhouse.” And that’s what it was. In it the visitor could find a little hallway, the walls of which were covered with wooden pegs to hang his clothing on. The next room had a structure made of stones.

In the middle of this was cemented an immense caldron. Under that there was a large opening in which to build a fire. A sort of stone stove, with a big stone chimney.

Every Saturday morning the young people of the house would be seen lugging big chunks of wood into the bania, and many pails of water.

Saturday night, after work, was bath night in all Russian villages. Members of each family would take turns in the bathhouse. Throwing cold water on the overheated stone stove, they would get steam galore into the big room. Then, climbing on the wide benches, arranged like steps, they would literally steam themselves clean, either by simply lying still or by pounding themselves with birch switches to which fragrant green leaves still clung.

The switches merely hastened the process of cleaning. You got just as clean without them, but it took longer.

One’s whole body tingled with the clean sensation of its opened pores. Then began the business of scrubbing and washing hair and body. Again and again hot, clean water was mixed with cold. And homemade soap-none ever smelled cleaner to me-was used in abundance.

 The whole performance was finished, in the winter, with a quick roll in the snow outside or with the dashing of a couple of buckets of ice-cold water over oneself.

Fresh and clean, clad in spotless, newly laundered clothing, the family would assemble for the special Saturday supper, consisting usually of tea, drunk by the gallon, bread, butter, and cheese or jam.

Sunday saw the whole village at church. Home afterward for the Sunday dinner and a nice rest for the older folks, followed later by a get-together on the village green.

There the young people would start a square dance at a moment’s notice or play Lapta. This somewhat resembles American baseball but is played with a polished oblong piece of wood instead of a ball. This is sent flying with a bat and the batter runs to the bases-the bases being much like the ones over here.

Laughter and jokes, singing and dancing, and playing various games -such was a Sunday afternoon and evening in a Russian village.

Winter changed the tempo and brought folks more indoors. Women oiled their spinning wheels and fixed their looms. Grannies started their knitting. With their chores done, the men made furniture, toys, or ornamental wooden boxes, or worked in their little copper and brass workshops.

Parties were held in the homes. The girls brought their embroideries, the boys their knives. Much storytelling took place while both worked. Much laughter was heard too. And some dancing would invariably follow.

Outside recreation was nonexistent, villages seldom being near railroads. The people, young and old, had to depend on themselves and their ingenuity to provide such recreation or amusement as was needed. And they did it, too-beautifully.

As in Ireland, the art of storytelling was highly valued. The true storyteller was a respected and loved member of any community.

Some of them were country famous; for, fancy free and foot loose, they would often wander across the immense land, telling stories that were old, or inventing new ones, in palace and isba. They were usually welcomed in both.

Singing was another natural art in Russia. It is said there that a Russian is born to the tune of a song, sings his life through, and with a song is laid to rest. And that is true.

Singing comes naturally to people who live close to nature. Russian songs with their undertones, now of deep sadness, now of riotous mirth, are well known abroad.

To them, as to the folk tales, both composers and musicians in Russia have turned again and again for inspiration.

Dancing, alone or in groups, to steps handed down by one’s forefathers, or to new steps invented as one went along, was as natural to most Russians as breathing. As tiny children they began it, and only the coffin stopped them.

Many a time I have seen a tiny shepherd, while watching his flock and playing a homemade reed flute, execute the most intricate and graceful steps on the green of hillside or plain.

Orchards and vegetable gardens formed a background of every village home. Bees were cultivated lovingly and knowingly. For honey was another staple of every man’s diet. It was eaten “as is,” and it was also constantly used in cooking. I think I could gather a small book of honey recipes, if I were put to it.

Yes, the village with its age-old pattern of life firmly established, with its artistic, cultural, and creative life flowing freely, and its just distribution of land, was the heart and the strength of Russia. And all its life truly centered around home and church.

It was a good life. Backward in one sense, perhaps-for its tools were simple, its hours long, and its work hard. Yet it was wholesome, and it made the nation strong with its deeply rooted Christian ideals and its almost indestructible family life.

No wonder that in my memories I constantly go back to the peaceful normal life of a Russian village. There my heart can rest from the unstable, tragic conditions of family life and of society in our dark days.

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