We eventually made the connection between the seeds of wheat
and the ability to turn them into flour from which our mothers would bake
bread. Because flour was in short supply and rationed, we had to line up daily to purchase ready-made bread before the communist-owned store ran
out.
Nobody in
their right minds would have stolen wheat from the Communist Party that owned
the field and all the means of production. They owned all the people too,
including us. Our parents trained us all the time to keep our mouths shut and
never say anything in public that we heard at home or else we would never see
our parents again.
We reached
the edge of the wheat field. The purplish-blue butterflies were out in force, flying
by in their airy dance. We each caught one for a moment in our cupped palms,
felt its velvety wings touching our skin, then released it giggling.
We were not too
afraid of the guards with axes because we erroneously thought that they were
there to protect us from harm.
We were happy
and looking forward to finding the small patch of red poppies we spotted from
our fifth-floor balcony the day before.
The intense
poppy red was a sharp contrast to the colors that surrounded our lives. Color
was often denied in our drab existence. Uniforms and regular street clothes
came in basic groups such as brown, black, navy, grey, ink blue. White and ink blue
shirts completed our uniform palette.
Beautiful
flowers with stunning colors and shapes, often planted on small balconies in
clay pots, was our way to escape the sad and grey world of the Bauhaus minimalist
existence the Communist Party leaders forced us to survive in.
Grandma and
mom’s siblings who lived in the country had a small patch by their homes in
which they planted both vegetables and fragrant roses.
Occasionally
we would find fabrics with a splash of red or pink and women bought yards to make
dresses for little girls. The rest of us wore the basic and depressing colors
of communist control – shades of grey, brown, black, and navy blue.
We walked
joyfully that day, with a spring in our steps – Milica, Viorica, Dorina, and I.
We reached the poppy patch, swimming through dense and tall blades of wheat,
oblivious to the micro cuts we got from the plants hitting exposed skin.
As we
started to pick a few poppies, the guards appeared out of nowhere, waving their
axes and shouting for us to disappear before they hurt us for crushing the wheat.
I am not
sure how much wheat we trampled; but we were running for our lives, so we
thought, out of breath, and with tears streaming down our faces.
Clutching a
few poppies to my chest, we ran in the direction of our apartments, crossing
the railroad tracks separating the apartment buildings from the fields. I
placed my poppies in a glass of water on the windowsill, a vibrant reminder of God’s
beauty.
Our parents
had no idea where we had been because we never told them. We were sure to be
punished if we did. I never forgot the incident and never went back. My exploration
streak would find plenty of wonders in my grandparents’ villages.
Years later
I finally understood what the two men with axes were guarding. It was not the wheat
harvest; it was the hidden poppies, the opium crop of those who had planted it.
The
communist government ignored the illegal activities of its agents.
