Marked for Dearth

Most families pass around certain lore about their longest lived or longest departed members. I’ve always been fascinated by these stories: how the chronology of a life becomes entertaining narrative, how some details are recalled and others forgotten, how apocryphal flourishes are injected here and there. And of course, what it all implies about that innocent-looking character in the sepia-tone family photos.

My paternal grandfather was fond of carrying out simul chess demonstrations (a talent I have plainly not inherited). After one such event in his twenties, he was apprehended by the secret police, ushered to a holding cell, and given a written confession to sign. The charge: spying for Japan. It was, like so many accusations leveled during Stalin’s purges, a fabrication (though I’d take pride in knowing that my grandfather had actually been a spy). A coin collection uncovered during a search of his apartment only reinforced his presumed guilt to the authorities.

Refusing to sign the death warrant confession, he prepared for the worst but was fortunately spared any coercion. Instead, after a quick secret trial, my grandfather was sentenced to ten years in a Siberian labor camp. He had earlier completed engineering work optimizing the bulk freight transport of petroleum and other industrial materials; once it had been recognized, his sentence was commuted to four years, which he then served. His health never fully recovered after his release, and he died many years before his time and long before my birth.

I was reminded of this story last week when my maternal grandfather passed away under very different circumstances at the age of 99. I didn’t know him very well - he was nearly 90 when he arrived in the States - but Phil wrote him a nice little memento.