memories

The Holy Nativity is a most strictly kept feast in Little Russia.

On Nativity Eve, mama would always rise very early to make all her preparations; she had new ribbons to put in her cap (her otshipka), papa's boots and her own to grease, and wax candles to make and so on. The over would not be required until late since there would be no regular meal during the day and the family would assemble only that night for the kutia (a sort of Russia plum pudding made of wheat with raisins).

Meanwhile papa, who had gone out to buy the fish would arrive on the scene. "Well, wife," he would shout, "I've got the fish."

"A pike?"

"A pike."

"God be praised," mama would cry, with a joyous glance at her brood which had flocked around her to examine the fish.

Then papa and we boys would go out to tend to the regular chores – milking the cows, feeding the pigs and making the sleigh ready. And, of course, an extra large supply of wood had to be brought in so mama wouldn't run short during the holiday.

His work finished, papa would go to the house of a bachelor neighbor who operated a sort of temporary barber's shop. A large group of neighbors would gather to be shaved and have their hair cut. The scene was most grotesque: a piece of scythe, well-sharpened, served as a razor and a bucket of water as a mirror!

Mama would spend most of her time preparing the kutia which, when finished, would be solemnly carried on the pokutia to the place of honour reserved for it in the kitchen.

I must say that I had no idea of what the ceremony consisted. I had never taken part in it or even assisted at it since only one person of the stronger sex was ever admitted. I only knew that the kutia was carried on the pokutia, and the whole ceremony was surrounded with mystery. Sometimes playmates older than myself would proudly tell me: "We have already carried the kutia, haven't you?"

But my turn came; I was outside playing with my friends and building little sleighs when my mother called me. I did not recognize her. Her usually pale cheeks were bright, her sad eyes radiantly happy. She placed her hand tenderly on my head and, tilting it backwards, looked at me affectionately.

"Come, my Vania, come, you shall carry the kutia," she said, smiling.

I shuddered with fear and joy and followed my mother to the kitchen in silence, looking around with curious eyes while my heart beat furiously.

The fading light straggling through the frosty windows barely lit up the room; the fire was dying down; all work was done. The boys and girls remained outside, arms crossed, looking at me curiously. The cook was sitting on a bench near the oven, her arms crossed; she looked at me proudly. Near her were two pans, one contained the kutia, the other, syrup.

Old Menikha, held in the greatest esteem by old and young, stood in the attitude of a high priestess before the altar, wiping the pokutia with a snow-white napkin.

I stood still in the middle of the kitchen, not knowing what to do. "This way, Vania," said old Menikha, calling me towards the pokutia, "cross yourself and bow three times."

I obeyed mechanically.

"Now follow me," she said, putting on her boots and cloak.

I walked behind her to a haystack, where the old woman looked about for a lump of grass still green. Having made her choice, she clered a space around it and told me to pull a large sheaf from the middle of the stack.

"Carry this and follow me," she said. When we returned to the kitchen, she told me to lay the hay on the pokutia then made me lift the kutia and syrup on the pokutia alone, place them carefully on the hay and cover them with two big loaves. I was then sent into the next room to fetch a honeycomb, which she had me place on the pokutia. She commanded and I obeyed. In conclusion, she made me cross myself, bow three times, and then told me I might rejoin my companions.

Followed by smiling glances from my mother and solemn smiles from the young men and girls, I walked out, my head bent, my childish imagination filled with mysterious fancies which I shall never forget.

The evening of the festival arrived; two long tables were prepared in the kitchen, one before the pokutia, the other a little farther off. Both were covered with mountains of cake, glasses and liquids. The vast room was lit by one candle near the pokutia.

My father, dressed in white, stood before the table facing the candle, surrounded by incense which rose like a cloud of glory from the thurible he swung with his left hand. We all stood behind him, both the family and the servants, in silence.

My father crossed himself and said solemnly:

"Lord protect us; Lord protect us; and thou, O Holy Virgin, rejoice."

The old man then recited the Our Father, and after saying the words "Deliver us from the evil one," passed the thurible to my mother, and seated himself before the pokutia. We all crossed ourselves and took our seats around the table, the family near the pokutia, the servants at the second table.

My father filled a little glass with his favorite liquor and broke the silence with the solemn words, "May my son Ivan be happy, may he keep in good health." Tears rolled down his cheeks, at the sight of which everyone in the room, from my mother to old Uncle Mina, a man of bronze, began to cry.

"May my daughter Galia be happy, may she keep in good health," continued my father, still weeping, while my mother, sisters and all the women likewise wept.

"The master of the house must now dry his tears and also, as the head of the household, he must dry the tears of the household." As though he had just entered the room, and knew nothing of what had passed, my father looked around and said sternly, "Who is crying, what need is there to open the flood gates, imbeciles? Stop weeping, stop I say!"

We all began to smile through our tears and when silence reigned once more my father continued:

"Well, may all be happy, may the dead reach God's kingdom and may we be preserved in good health."

He drank another little glass, poured a small amount for those around him, and dashed the remainder upwards to the ceiling. After the head of the family had sipped it was the mistress' turn and so on from the members of the family to the servants, until the youngest baby and the youngest farm girl had wet their lips.

After the ceremony was finished, all fell to, beginning on the poppy seed cakes or green peas rolled in honey, then cakes mad from roasted chestnuts, and so on until the borsch [red-beet soup]. After that comes the pike, which appears in various shapes and forms and without which the Nativity feast would be incomplete.

The principal dish is, of course, the kutia, the Russian plum pudding.

Very little is drunk at dinner and boisterous gaiety is avoided, for the great charm of the festival lies in its atmosphere of peaceful joy.

The Little Russian becomes more gentle and subdued than ever during the Nativity season, and his smile is the sign of the peace reigning around him.

-- A. S. Rappoport

[Reprinted from "KITEZH - The Journal Of The Russian Cultural Heritage Society", Issue No. 9. This English language translation originally appeared in "ORTHODOX WAY", Vol. 8, No. 6, January 6, 1985.]