Yulahu has issued a challenge that is based on some photographs she has taken in the Römerplatz, one of which photographs, is shown above. She said:
“Copy one of my photos to your blog, and write a story...than let me know about it.” Here is my entry:
SIBERIA
Siberia is frigidly cold in winter. Come to think of it, Siberia is cold in summer too. The warmth in our hearts has to make up for the lack of heat of our pallid sun. That, and a drop of vodka now and then – more then than now. It was always hard to scratch out a living from the gelid earth, but now it had become even more difficult – perestroika, glasnost and the mafia, too…
To put bread on the family table is my responsibility and my wife’s eyes, they too had taken some of the ice from the frozen earth outside as my efforts to feed us were becoming more ineffectual. The silence of my children and their empty bellies a wordless accusation more effective than loud shouts and cries.
The decision to leave our homeland was difficult. But the colourful images on the foreign magazines were so enticing, the flickering blue light of the TV screen a mesmerising temptation, the promise of a better life so tangible, so easily attainable, it all seemed so easy! A voyage of thousands of kilometres, countless dangers, endless sacrifices. The warmth of our hearts saved us from the coldness of the wintry enmity of the people along the way.
We had to survive and all we had was each other. How else could we have managed to end up here? Here where the streets were meant to be paved with gold. Here where laughter was to be heard in every street corner. Where life was bright and warm and colourful like the images in the magazines… The life of an illegal immigrant is not an easy one. If one has a family, then it becomes even harder. Hard like Siberian earth, no matter where one is, even if one is in laughter-filled Römerplatz.
No jobs, life is not a colour magazine, even here. People may smile sunnily, but their hearts are cold. The autumn sun still so pleasantly warm, in Römerplatz, but to eke out a living here is as hard as in Siberia. To put bread on the family table is my responsibility and the only way to do it is to make the laughter louder, to make the mirth more widespread, to entertain, amuse, divert these carefree people. I apply my make-up and freeze on my dais on Römerplatz. The children dance and sing sad Russian songs, my wife plays the balalaika. The dogs do their tricks – how people laugh! I smile and bow deeply each time a coin hits the cold metal of the box in front of me. Ridi pagliaccio!
Our hearts are still warm as a cold night falls and the thousand coloured lights of the Römerplatz illuminate it like a fairy tale that my babushka used to tell me. Bread will be put on our table once again tonight. Our feet drag on the cobblestones and still, all that we have is each other. It is enough.
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