This Californian city, Sacramento, became quite famous in the former Soviet Union thanks to the third wave of emigration.
At one time, when we still lived in the USSR, we did not even delve into the meaning of this word - emigration. Why? Because of the Iron Curtain, it was much easier to get to the next world, to the Kingdom of Heaven, than to emigrate to a capital country.
By some miracle, in both the 70s and 80s, single families of desperate daredevils from Jews and Germans filtered “over the hill.” The rest of the proletarians enjoyed the taiga and barbed wire of southern Kolyma more than the palm trees and warm sand of northern Florida.
Therefore, when in the late 80s Reagan and Gorbachev agreed to release Christians from the Union on Israeli visas, and the Americans gave very decent quotas for this matter, a serious flow of Christian emigrants poured into America. At that time, almost everyone easily obtained the coveted refugee status. It was enough to say that you once saw a man in a police cap in the courtyard of your church, and the desired status was secured. Although there were also many Christians on whom the atheistic skating rink of Soviet justice rolled very seriously.
At the end of 1989, we were already in Italy, waiting our turn to enter the States, and my uncle Misha Serin was still serving a five-year sentence for possessing and distributing Bibles that were found in his home. He was a member of the Separate Church, and during the search, several hundred copies of Bibles and Christian literature printed in an underground printing house were seized from him. In this regard, the Separated Ones caused a lot of problems for the KGB officers. When, after considerable pressure, the authorities failed to crack Uncle Misha and get on the trail of the printing house, they attached an article to him and sent him to “places not so remote” for five years.
In Italy, where we spent only two months (a record short period of time, usually it ranged from 3 to 6 months), we wrote letters calling for the release of Uncle Misha. Gorbachev was already crowing with all his might to the whole world that there was not a single political prisoner in the Soviet Union. “What about Uncle Misha”? – we wrote to Caritas and somewhere else. It is clear that Gorbachev may not have known anything about his namesake from distant Tashkent. But, be that as it may, at the very end of 1989, Uncle Misha was released without warning, ahead of schedule. Maybe the fact that we dropped it in the right place at the right time had some impact. For us it was not so important, the main thing was the result: he returned to his family.
But what’s interesting: no matter how much all their relatives tried to persuade Uncle Misha and Aunt Tasya to leave for the States, they remained to live in Uzbekistan to preach the Gospel.
The majority of the third wave of emigration consisted of people of the simplest class, mainly from small towns and villages. I don't mean Jews. Quite a few of them also came to the States in the 90s. A little later the situation leveled out, especially when the Greencard lottery began to be played.
As you know, the history of emigration to America from Russia has three main waves. They all have their own characteristics. The first wave began en masse after the 1917 revolution. Of those who managed to escape from Russia from the Bolsheviks, a considerable number were lucky enough to go to America. In the 90s, we often met their grandchildren and great-grandchildren here, who could no longer be distinguished from ordinary Americans. Only when they found out that we came “from there” did they remember that their grandfathers or great-grandfathers also fled “from there” at one time. Almost everyone (with rare exceptions) no longer knew the Russian language, and only a few of them, with difficulty and a wild accent, could pronounce two or three words, such as “grandmother” or “pirozhschki” (with emphasis on the second syllable). Imagine: only some 70-80 years have passed and that’s it! The Slavs had nothing left of the Slavic. They completely dissolved in the environment in which they found themselves. True, this also applied to other nationalities to the same extent.
(In this sense, the history of the Israeli people is amazing. For two thousand years, these people were scattered across the entire face of the earth. In different countries, continents, cultures, languages, peoples, customs, traditions, etc., etc. Two thousand years! And then in 1948 the State of Israel was formed. And everything is in place! Language, culture, religion, customs, traditions - everything is the same as two thousand years ago. In fact, this is simply a demographic miracle of miracles! And it cannot be explained by anything other than the direct participation of God’s Providence in their destiny and the clear fulfillment of the biblical prophecy that God will gather His people from the dispersion at the end of the ages).
The second wave of emigration was the time immediately after World War II. As we found out upon arrival, this wave came from two directions. One stream was from Europe, mainly from Germany: captured soldiers and civilians who survived in Nazi camps, young people deported to work in Germany. But there were also those who, due to health reasons, were not drafted into the Red Army, for some reason were unable (or did not want) to evacuate deep into the country (as is known, at the beginning of the war the Germans advanced very quickly) and remained in the occupied territory.
In our church in Bright (a suburb of Sacramento) there was an old man, Kuzma Romanovich. He was born in Ukraine and had already reached middle age, but was not drafted into the army due to a congenital problem with his legs. He had six children, less than a few, and he worked as a shoemaker. When the Germans arrived, he continued to make shoes in his shop. Whether you like it or not, you had to feed your family in any case. The Germans did not harm him, and naturally, Wehrmacht soldiers also looked into his workshop. When the German army rolled back, he said goodbye to his wife and children and went to Germany, knowing full well what awaited him here for the fact that he “collaborated” with the Germans by hemming their boots. From Germany he somehow managed to get to America. For about 30 years he lived alone and hoped for changes that would allow him to return to his family. Only after losing all hope did he marry a widow here, also an emigrant. He died in the late 90s, never seeing his family again.
We also had grandfather Timofey. A similar fate: war, injury, captivity, Nazi concentration camps and America. Unlike Kuzma Romanovich, grandfather Timofey remained lonely until his death. We remember him for constantly praying out loud for the President, Congress, Senate and asking for wisdom and blessings to be sent upon them. He also never forgot to thank God for the fact that he walks with his own feet and doesn’t need to be “turned over.” He lived on the street next to the church in a very small house. He didn’t have a car, and he walked everywhere with a stroller from some store. Thus, for grandfather Timofey, walking on his own feet was critically important, since there was no one to care for him. It’s interesting that either through his prayers, or it happened this way, but until the very last day, Grandfather Timothy was on his own two feet.
Another part of the second wave of emigration poured into the States from China. Living in the Union, we, as they say, never knew that in the 1930s tens of thousands of Slavs fled to China through Kyrgyzstan and Kazakhstan, fleeing hunger and repression. The border of the USSR at that time was translucent and was guarded by squads of Red Army soldiers, who passed through patrols several times a night. The fugitives used the time between their passages to cross into China.
This decision was not for the faint of heart. The fugitives exposed themselves to mortal danger. But the fear of starvation forced people to take risks, because death from hunger was not much better than death from the bullets of the Red Army. As you understand, in those bad old days the GPS system did not yet exist, and only God knows how people transmitted information to each other and found their way. Having reached distant villages along the border, it was necessary to find a guide from the Kazakhs or Kyrgyz, who, for a certain fee, risking their lives, agreed to lead the next group to the neighboring country. Sometimes we had to hide for several days in the steppe near the border and wait for our moment.
In 1989, upon arrival in Bright, we lived for two weeks with an elderly, lonely woman from Chinese emigration. Her name was Aunt Shura Lokteva. When her family managed to cross the border, she was still a very young girl. “It wasn’t possible to transition right away,” she said. – There was some unusual activity among the border guards, and we had to stay in the steppe for another day. The next night everything happened again, I had to stay until the next day. We suffered such fear then...
It was late autumn. Our group consisted of fourteen people. There were small children with us. The youngest was about ten months old. With children it was even more difficult. It was impossible to make a sound, it was impossible to light a fire, and we tried to lie quietly in our shallow hollow.
We were not prepared for having to wait so long; we had almost no water left, and we saved it for the children. Some adults, unable to endure thirst, drank their own urine. What we experienced then is difficult to describe in words. It was the time between life and death. Finally, on the third night, the guide said that we could go today. He brought two horses, we loaded things on them, and wrapped the horses’ hooves with pieces of felt. The children were given kuknar to drink so that they would fall asleep and not give us away by screaming. (Kuknar are dry poppy pods from which opium was collected and the pods were dried. In the East, such pods are brewed as tea, and there is still quite a lot of dope left in there).
The border followed a shallow river, which we forded. Then they began to move along the bed of a small stream deeper into China. The stream was very small, there was maybe ankle-deep water in it, and we walked through the water for another kilometer, fearing being chased by the dogs. This was not an empty precaution, since no one was guarding the border on the Chinese side in any way. There were cases when border guards calmly entered Chinese territory and arrested refugees. We walked for a long time, and finally the guide said that here we were already safe and could settle down to rest. But then fate prepared another test for us. Dawn had already broken, we began to take our things off the horses, and suddenly... Oh, God! We see that we have lost our little sister Valya. She was only ten months old, she was also given opium, swaddled and placed in a khurjum on a horse along with her things. And in the darkness, while we were crossing the border with bated breath, or when we were already making our way up this stream, she fell out of the khurjum somewhere. No one noticed where or how it happened.
Mom was crying and everyone had tears in their eyes. After everything we had experienced, when we had already received the desired freedom, after the last three days we had been balancing between life and death, such grief happened. Exhausted from the experience, exhausted by inhuman exertion, we could barely stand on our feet and didn’t know what to do now. Going back and looking for the baby almost certainly meant getting caught by the border guards and never returning. Closer to the border, the forest, which reliably sheltered us from prying eyes, was very sparse and clearly visible from the other side.
The problem was that we didn’t know where this little girl slipped out of the khurjum: either when we were sneaking towards the border, or when we were fording the river, or when we were already walking along the stream on the Chinese side. What to do? It was a pity for our little one to tears. Everyone blamed themselves for not having finished looking, for not checking the khurjums along the way, especially mom and dad who blamed themselves. Everyone understood that with every second our Valechka had less and less chance of staying alive. Here dad tells us: “Take your time to rest, and I’ll run along the stream and look for her. I think we dropped it somewhere on this side. When we crossed the border, I kept an eye on the horses, and, in my opinion, nothing fell into the water. I will very carefully check the creek to the border and try not to get caught by the border guards.”
Our guide began to dissuade dad, saying that he could destroy us all.
– Even if the soldiers don’t come here, if you are arrested, what will your family do in a foreign land? - he said. – If you don’t return, the rest of your family will die, and you won’t return the baby if she fell into the water.
This was the choice our dad faced. Mom and all of us, a dozen pairs of eyes, looked at him, every heart bled with pity and love for the baby. However, on the other hand, the reality was this: now we could also lose dad. It was a terrible choice.
But dad had no hesitation.
“I believe,” he said, “if the Lord, through our prayers, preserved us and brought us to this place, He will not allow me to die here.” But if I don’t try to find her, until the end of my days I will not forgive myself for not doing everything in my power to save our baby out of cowardice. Pray for me and may the Lord help me.
With these words, he hurriedly entered the stream bed and disappeared between the dense bushes. To say that we bowed down to prayer would be very far from the truth. We just collapsed to the ground - some on our knees, some just falling on our faces; Some sitting, some lying down, we began to cry out to God for the salvation of dad and Valyushka. Having spread out his mat, our guide also began to pray in his own language. It was impossible to speak loudly, but our hearts burned with prayers. I think it’s not every day that the walls of churches hear such fiery prayers.
Someone said it well: “Stations often see more sincere kisses than registry offices, and the walls of hospital wards sometimes hear more sincere prayers than church walls.” So it is in our case: the trouble that rose to its full height ignited our prayers so much that, it seems, I never prayed like that again. I was lying on the ground, and it seemed to me that the feet of our Lord were standing near my head. In such cases, all the ostentatious husks fall off from the hearts, and the person is left alone with God. We leaned with all our being, heart, and mind to the One who could save us, both dad and our sister.
When Valyushka was nearby, everything was perceived as everyday. There is a sweet sister, she is growing up, she was there yesterday, she is there today and will be there tomorrow. This is taken for granted by people. But now, when we understood that either our girl would be saved, or we would never see her again, the prayer was a common cry from the soul for help from above.
The rare snow that began to fall while crossing the border, to the great joy of our guide, turned into a good snowfall. This meant that even if we left some traces, they could no longer be seen. There was practically no frost, maybe one or two degrees, and large flakes of snow fell to the ground. This also made us happy because it was no longer possible for strangers to see dad from afar.
Every minute seemed to drag on like an eternity. It was hard to say how much time had passed since Dad had gone down the creek. We didn’t have a watch; It had already become quite light from the day that had come and from the snow that had covered everything abundantly. The younger children, exhausted from the trek, fell asleep right on the mats, and fresh snow covered them like a blanket.
And here a miracle happened! In the bed of the stream, dad appeared from a snowy shroud, holding in his hands a bundle with our little Valechka. It is useless to describe now those feelings, the joy that gripped us. I will say that we have never experienced such joy in our lives. I cannot give you even a hundredth part of it. We were ready to exclaim so that it could be heard to the ends of the universe, but we could only rejoice in a whisper. The border was about one and a half kilometers from our place, and dogs have very sensitive hearing.
Meanwhile, dad, choking with happiness, said that he found Valechka somewhere halfway to the border. The stream was very shallow, slow and rather winding. And on one of these bends, apparently, when the horse was turning, it caught the khurjum on a branch, and Valyushka fell out. The opium was still working, so she did not cry and continued to sleep. (When our family arrived in California in 1989, the same Valechka, rescued from the stream, had already been the cashier of our church in Bright for many years. - Author's note).
This ended our torment at the border, and within a few days we were in Ghulja. This city was one of the centers of Slavic refugees in China. At one time, several tens of thousands of people settled there, fleeing famine and Stalinist repressions. If China had not “blushed” after World War II and become communist, then most likely there would still be a large Slavic colony there today.
In just over ten years, our people have risen well there. Many businesses opened, mills, bakeries, small industries, farms, schools, churches, etc. But the coming to power of the communists changed everything, and we had to seek salvation in yet another emigration. It was a long and dangerous journey across China to the port city of Shanghai. From there people left for different countries of the world. The most desirable place was the USA, but very few managed to get there directly from Shanghai. Therefore, most Slavs went to South America: Argentina, Paraguay, Brazil and other countries.
The Philippines also accepted refugees. There was a rumor that it would be easier to move to America from the Philippines, and our family, with a group of about seventy people, decided to go this route. In addition, the last ships were already leaving Shanghai, and, fleeing the soldiers of the Red Chinese Army, we were ready to go anywhere so as not to remain under communist rule. Thus, we had practically no time to think and make any special choice. No one gave any guarantees what would happen to those who were planning to emigrate when Mao Zedong’s army captured Shanghai.
Time has confirmed the correctness of our choice. After a year and a half of staying in the Philippines, through the efforts of a Russian pastor, who several years earlier was lucky enough to leave for America directly from Shanghai, we received permission to enter the United States. The name of this pastor is Peter Amegin-Shelokhvostov.”
We can say with confidence that almost every person from the second wave of emigration went through the most difficult trials. These are thousands of heartbreaking stories, some similar, some different, about suffering, fear and pain.
Even after coming to America, these people had to work hard to have a means of subsistence. Many of them could spend hours describing their ordeals. Seeing that we, as refugees, were given good benefits, they told us with hidden envy about the hard work they had to do to earn their daily bread. At that time they did not have any benefits; they had to earn money for everything. Although they did mention that many products could be obtained for free, and for five dollars (the daily fee in the 50s) you could load a full cart of groceries at the supermarket. In the 90s, everything already cost many times more.
The third wave, which reached its apogee in the 90s, continues to this day. Until mid-1990, people traveled to America via Vienna and Rome. In Austria and Italy, those who traveled to America on Israeli visas were on government support. America paid for food and housing. But this only applied to those heading to the States or Israel. Those who wanted to go to Canada, Australia and other places had to pay for everything out of their own pocket.
After mid-1990, people already traveled to the States directly and with passports. Until this time, the USSR authorities forced emigrants to renounce their citizenship (it cost 700 rubles - a lot of money at that time). It was necessary to hand over passports, diplomas, military IDs, work records, and all that was left in your hands was a small piece of paper, the size of your palm, an Israeli visa. Those who received this visa were informed that upon crossing the border of the Soviet Union they would automatically lose their USSR citizenship.
California was attractive with high benefits, numerous assistance programs and relatively inexpensive housing. In ocean-coast cities such as San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Jose, and San Diego, accommodation was much more expensive, and therefore Sacramento in the early 90s was an ideal city for new immigrants. An hour and a half drive to San Francisco in one direction, a two-hour drive to Lake Tahoe and Nevada in the other, inexpensive housing, as well as a sea of various benefits and benefits for those arriving with refugee status. (В то время по этому статусу приезжало большинство). California had ideal conditions for studying: schools, colleges, universities. If you took Fulltime (full load), then you were also paid for all units (classes), books, parking, food stamps. If there were children, they also paid for kindergarten. In general, all imaginable benefits. They just didn’t come to your house to bring you to college!
There were a lot of things that surprised me at first. I remember how, looking around, we involuntarily repeated the phrase: “Well, well done! You did it right!” Another thing was surprising: everyone took your word for it. In the most serious offices, in schools and other places, when filling out any documents, forms, applications for benefits, you were not asked to show a passport or some kind of identification. A lot of things were recorded simply from your words. The only thing is that almost everywhere you needed your social card number, but people quickly learned it by heart, and you didn’t have to show your card.
Upon arrival, we were also surprised that the capital of California was Sacramento. It's not the largest city in California. Los Angeles, San Francisco and other cities are much larger than Sacramento. We remembered well that in the Union capitals usually became the largest and most developed cities. Moscow, Kyiv, Tashkent, Minsk - these were cities with a population of over a million. The capital is the capital! But then we gradually learned that many states here have the same tradition of having their capitals in much less populated cities.
Sacramento owes much of its history to the times of the Gold Rush. When gold was discovered in El Dorado on the American River, a flood of gold seekers from all over America and other countries poured into California. More and more parties arrived in San Francisco and sailed along the Sacramento River to the city of the same name. Then they rode horses up the American River to the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, where the gold mines were located.
Sacramento at that time became a transit point. The lucky ones brought the panned gold to the city and handed it over to banks, which grew like mushrooms. Interestingly, at that time they paid 18-20 dollars for an ounce of gold, and now an ounce is valued at at least 1,200-1,300 dollars. This is inflation-devalvaccio.
Today Sacramento is a large modern city with a population of over a million people, including suburbs that are closely integrated with the main city. Here in the States, we see such merging all the time. In Lake Tahoe, for example, the California-Nevada border runs down the middle of a city street. One side of the street is California and the other is Nevada. Tourists from California need to simply cross to the other side to take photos in Nevada.
Another important factor seriously influenced the development of the city. The fact is that two transcontinental routes intersect in Sacramento. Freeway 80 crosses America from West to East. It starts in San Francisco and ends in New York. The 5th Freeway runs perpendicular to it. It starts in San Diego, near the Mexican border, and, passing through all three western states, reaches Canada.
Therefore, there were many advantages for third-wave immigrants to Sacramento. For example, a climate in which there are only three seasons: spring, summer, autumn (winter in Sacramento exists only in calendars), inexpensive housing, plenty of work, various benefits and many other pleasant little things. In addition, there were already two Russian Orthodox Churches and two Russian Baptist Churches. All this taken together produced a “snowball” effect. If in the mid-80s of the 20th century Russian Baptists and Orthodox Christians numbered about two hundred people, then today, according to various estimates, from 200 to 250 thousand Russian speakers from the former Soviet Union live in Sacramento and the surrounding area.
Today there are 104 Slavic churches in Sacramento, and some of them are quite large even by American standards (up to 5 thousand members). The Slavic diaspora is well organized. There are radio, television, newspapers, magazines, shops, agencies, schools, kindergartens, a sea of all kinds of businesses, some of them are quite serious, with a turnover of tens of millions of dollars.
The Slavic population of Sacramento continues to grow, and I recently heard a cool joke about this: Sacramento. 2050 A patrol car is driving down the street. Suddenly they see a drunk lying on the sidewalk. They stopped, walked up, checked their pockets, looked into their wallet, and one policeman said to the other: “Petro, hey, what a wonderful last name: Johnson!”
A large flow of third wave emigrants passed through Sacramento, who then spread to other cities. Many Slavs left for neighboring states - Oregon, Washington, Nevada. Therefore, Sacramento is rightly called the capital of the third wave of emigration.
California is also known to be a mecca for tourists. Lake Tahoe, Yosemite, Giant Sequoia Park. (Some of the trees in this park are older than King Solomon and are more than a hundred meters high. This is the only place on earth where they are preserved.) Near San Francisco is the world-famous wine-growing Napa Valley. Los Angeles, Hollywood, Disneyland, the world's best aquariums in San Diego and Monterey, Glendale Memorial Park, where the largest painting in the world is located, the town of El Dorado, the Crystal Cathedral in Los Angeles, etc., etc.
Listing all the hot spots would take a lot of time, and to visit all these places, you need to live in California for several years. We learned about the existence of one of these places when we arrived in this God-blessed region. It must be said that when we were going to the States, we had very little information about this country. And this is not surprising. In the pre-perestroika USSR there was very little information about the Western world, and it was mostly negative. I remember in one of the magazines the heartbreaking story “The Red Shoes”. There, the evil capitalists wanted to offend a little, poor, kind black girl. We knew the names of several cities; they knew that America was divided into states, and maybe some other little things.
We left for the States from Uzbekistan, and it was easier for us to do this, because there was already a “fried smell” there. Bloody clashes began between Meskhetian Turks and Uzbeks. All doubts were dispelled by Tajikistan, which was beginning to burn. Nobody knew what would happen next. Although the war in Afghan ended, living standards continued to decline. In Tashkent, many products were already provided with coupons. But what was more important for Christians was that our fellow believers continued to be imprisoned. There was outright discrimination at school and at work. If you are not a Komsomol member, your chances of entering an institute or university were zero. For believers, the road to higher education was closed. Even if you received a diploma of higher education (some educational institutions could be completed in absentia), it was impossible to rise above the head of the boiler room.
So, having arrived in our new land, we began to discover new horizons for ourselves. It’s interesting that when I was going over the hill, to a country located on the other side of the planet, I had a question: what kind of land is there? I have never been involved in farming, except for the fact that from an early age, every summer I had to spend a lot of time in the apiary with my grandfather Grisha. All our relatives had bees. This was a good legal help to the family budget. But here’s a strange question: “What kind of land is there?” – for some reason I had it until my arrival in America.
Our plane arrived in Sacramento around ten o'clock in the evening. We were met by believers from the Bright Church, and we settled for two weeks with Aunt Shura Lokteva, who told us a lot about her emigration.
My first morning in America was memorable for one very characteristic episode. There were many walnut trees in Bright. We arrived there at the end of November, and it was walnut ripening season. Aunt Shura, her neighbors, and many Bright residents had walnut trees in their yards. It was maybe 8 or 9 in the morning, and I went out onto an American street for the first time. Looking around, I saw that literally twenty meters from our yard, the sidewalk and the side of the road were strewn with walnuts.
There was not a soul on the street. Getting closer, I picked up a couple of nuts from the sidewalk and, crushing them with my hands, tasted the contents. Cool nuts are fresh and ripe. I thought: “How happy the owner of the house is at such a bountiful harvest!” I had barely managed to swallow my prey when a man came out of the yard with a broom and dustpan in his hands. We said hello, and he began sweeping his bountiful harvest into one heap, along with leaves and small branches. Well, I think now he will collect everything together and then sort the nuts from the leaves. But that was not the case.
Then the first shock awaited me. Having collected everything in a large pile, he rolled out the garbage can and... - oh, horror! - He began to load all this wealth into it with a wide scoop. There were at least five kilograms of nuts, if not more. These weren't missing nuts - I just tasted them. But now they all fly straight into the “garbich”. I couldn’t explain this to myself, no matter how hard I tried, but just watched in shock as the last portions of nuts disappeared into the trash can. I think if someone took a photo of me at this moment, it would be a very memorable photo.
This was our first introduction to America as a land of abundance. Later, an American acquaintance said that America produces and imports seven times more goods into the country than it needs. Subsequently, we were more than once convinced of the correctness of his words. When I walked into the house with a long face and told Aunt Shura about what I had just seen, she laughed and said: everyone does it here. There is neither time nor desire to sit and peel nuts, since in the store you will buy them peeled, packaged and very inexpensively. Why beat your fingers with a hammer and pick at shells if all this will be on your table at any time.
Listening to Aunt Shura, I involuntarily remembered a funny story about America: a Russian and an American started talking about strawberries. The Russian says: “When strawberries appear at the markets in mid-May, we put them in jars for the whole year.” He then asks the American: “When do you have strawberries?” He answers: “At 6 o’clock in the morning.” Of course, after food stamps and half-empty shelves in stores, what we saw in America was expected, but we still experienced a considerable shock, just like after these nuts.
So day after day we got to know the country. Almost everything we came into contact with was new to us. Language, culture, laws, customs... It was as if we were born again, and we had to be taught how to live on earth. It was a great joy that the Americans were very friendly towards the new emigrants. Apparently, the fact is that everyone in America (except for the indigenous Indians) are also emigrants in different generations.
Now it’s time to return to the story about one very significant place for the Slavs, which we learned about already in California. We knew from history that the Russians once owned Alaska, but that the Russians for several decades owned a fairly large territory in California was a discovery for us. This place is called Fort Ross, or Russian Fortress. Now it is part of the California National Park.
This story began in 1812, when, after a long search, the Russian-American Company bought a large piece of land on the Pacific coast, 80 kilometers north of San Francisco, from the Kashaya Pomo Indians. According to some reports, for this the Indians received three blankets, three pairs of pants, two axes, three hoes and several strings of beads.
This is how the southernmost Russian colony in North America arose. It was created as an agricultural settlement to supply Alaska with food. To this day, the surrounding places bear names that have been preserved from those times. Bodega Bay was formerly called Rumyantsev Bay. A river flows nearby, which the settlers called Slavyanka, now called the Russian River. Nearby there is a small American town called Sevastopol. And, of course, the center of attention for tourists is the fortress itself. It was carefully restored, preserving the original layout of the buildings, and the only building remaining from those times is the house of the last Russian commandant Rotchev.
Very soon the Ross fortress became a solid settlement. Russian craftsmen built windmills, warehouses, bakeries, forges, baths, a wine cellar, made furniture, doors, frames, carts, wheels, barrels, processed iron and copper, planted orchards, vineyards, built ships and sold them to the Spaniards. A port was built in Rumyantsev Bay, where goods were loaded onto ships. Three farms (ranches) were created where livestock was raised. In 1841, the settlement was no longer profitable and was sold to American entrepreneur John Sutter.
About 150,000 people visit Fort Ross each year. Various cultural events take place, the most significant of which is Cultural Heritage Day. This holiday is celebrated every year on the last Saturday of July by the Russian community of California. The program includes Orthodox liturgy, shooting from ancient rifles and cannons, and performances by musical and folklore groups. Borscht is prepared, pancakes are baked, women and men dressed in ancient Russian outfits are around, children and adults are taught knitting, embroidery, weaving baskets and bast shoes... In general, people have enough impressions after this holiday for a long time.
As new Californians, we enjoyed visiting our State's many parks. We fell in love with Fort Ross immediately. It takes about four hours to get there from Sacramento. You pass Santa Rosa, then Sevastopol, then along the Russian River to Bodega Bay, and then it’s a stone’s throw to the fortress itself. With the start of the third wave of emigration, the number of visitors to Cultural Heritage Day increased significantly, and it was necessary to arrive early to secure convenient parking.
It was the last Saturday in July 1997. Our group of five cars, which accommodated about twenty-five people, arrived for this holiday. We got there without any problems and soon disappeared into the motley crowd of participants and tourists. The patriarch of the Mysin family, Sergei Alexandrovich, was also in our company. He was already over eighty, but like young people, he never missed an opportunity to go to nature. He especially loved the mountains. Any. In the mountains, despite his age, he could conquer any trail. Fifteen to twenty kilometers were the norm for Sergei Alexandrovich. Thin and fit, he had not eaten any meat for more than forty years, but he respected fish.
Thanks to Sergei Alexandrovich, everyone present remembered this Day of Culture for a long time. This has never happened before or since in Fort Ross. Located on the shores of the Pacific Ocean, the fortress is fenced on all sides by four-meter tall vertical sequoia beams. Between the fortress and the ocean there is a fairly spacious clearing, about two hundred and fifty meters, and then a steep slope to the water begins. This is not to say that the slope is terribly steep, but an inexperienced person can easily tumble down and get hurt.
The party was in full swing. Sergei Alexandrovich walked around the fortress, listened to music, tasted Russian cabbage soup and decided to clear his head a little. Slowly passing through the clearing, he stood at the cliff and slowly went down to the ocean. After staying there for some more time, he just as slowly began to climb up the slope. Having covered about half the way, he suddenly heard loud voices in English from above.
Unfortunately, Sergei Alexandrovich was unable to learn English during this time. Therefore, he looked in bewilderment at the group of alarmed Americans who were shouting something at him from above and gesticulating. Apparently, they, like Sergei Alexandrovich, went out to breathe the fresh ocean breeze. And, approaching the shore, they saw in the middle of the cliff a helpless, as it seemed to them, grandfather, who, of course, carelessly fell down and is now trying to get out.
Sergei Alexandrovich thought that he had probably broken some rules. Maybe it was impossible to go down without permission. Hesitantly, he tried to continue climbing, but as soon as he took a few steps, the Americans from above began to loudly shout something and wave their arms. Sergei Alexandrovich returned to his original place, and the screams from above died down. So he tried to get up several times, and each time the screams and gesticulations forced him to return to the same place.
Meanwhile, people in the fortress learned about this drama. The music, the performances, everything stopped, and people rushed to the edge of the clearing, realizing that something terrible had happened. Our group also ran to the shore, hearing snatches of conversations as they went: “Yes, he fell from a cliff... no, it seems he’s still breathing...”
Having pushed to the edge of the cliff, we were dumbfounded: it was our grandfather standing there and looking around in fear, not understanding what they wanted from him. The crowd is growing by the minute, and more and more people are waving their arms and shouting, “Dontmuv! Dontmuv!” (Don't move! Don't move!). Then Sergei Alexandrovich, completely frightened and embarrassed, when he saw his daughters and sons-in-law, began to ask what he should do. The girls started shouting at him: “Dad, don’t move! Dad, don't move! The Americans picked it up and also started shouting: “Dad, dontmuv! Dad, dontmuv! In general, there was quite a stir.
Seeing that grandfather was seriously scared, our son-in-law Vasily carefully went down to Sergei Alexandrovich to support and help him get out. When he began to descend, the crowd froze, and as soon as he reached his grandfather, the entire shore erupted in applause for Vasily for such a heroic act. But as soon as Vasily and Sergei Alexandrovich began to rise, the entire shore again exploded with cries of “Dad, dontmuv!” Now even Vasily could not understand what they wanted from them.
It turns out that compassionate Americans, out of fear, have already called rescuers, and a helicopter with a brigade should arrive any minute to save our grandfather. And in fact, just a couple of minutes later everyone heard a characteristic chirping sound, and a helicopter began circling above our heads, from the open door of which the figures of rescuers could be seen.
The police arrived in time and pushed the people aside, and the helicopter, with a terrible roar, landed in the middle of the clearing. Rescuers in vests sparkling with brackets and latches attached to them jumped out of the cabin, approached the cliff, assessed the situation and, returning to the helicopter, began to prepare for the operation. One of them fastened himself to a strong rope and the helicopter took off and then began to slowly lower it towards our terrified grandfather. Once nearby, the rescuer put a vest on Sergei Alexandrovich, fastened him to himself with belts, wrapped his arms around him, and under thunderous applause and victorious cries of those present, the grandfather was lowered into the middle of the clearing. The same procedure was done with Vasily.
Noise, congratulations, applause, hugs, photographs - the whole clearing was simply seething with joy that this drama ended like in an Indian movie. Vasily recalled with a laugh that it was the first time in his life that he flew in a helicopter. When the jubilant crowd returned back to the fortress and the fun continued, Sergei Alexandrovich, after waiting a little, went down to the water and went back up, muttering under his breath: “Why is there a panic here? Yes, such slopes are like sunflower seeds to me...”
