Anna Visloukh - A Thunderous Silence. Raising an Autistic child. My True Story

«Father,» I say breathing heavily. «Father, I want to baptize my boy! When can it be arranged?»

He turns around. He is young, dark-haired, and he replies loudly in a cheerful voice, «You can do it right away! I am about to do a christening!»

«But I have not got any baptismal cross or towels, and there are no godparents with me.»

«Don’t worry about any of that, just come on in,» he says, pushing us inside impatiently. «Everything will be all right!»

We all come inside. It is a small baptismal church in the cathedral courtyard, and people are already waiting for the priest there: a young couple with a baby in their arms, a woman with a girl, a teenager and a young woman in a headscarf.

«You can buy a baptismal cross, a candle and a towel in the church shop,» the priest tells me as he hurries towards the ambon.

«Of course, I will do it straight away,» I reply, frantically rummaging in my purse to make sure that I have enough money, hoping there is enough money to make a donation to the church afterwards. «But we have no godparents.»

«Just give me the name of the person that you want to be his godmother,» the priest says, and then he turns towards us and begins to read out a prayer.

I look at my son. He is standing there with a candle in his hand, looking serious and suddenly all grown up.

It’s all coming back to me now.

It was a summer day in July. It was a clear day, full of the concentrated aromas, the loud sounds and the colors of a Ukrainian village. I was seven years old.

«Grandma Ganu, grandma Ganu!» a neighbor shouted in what was clearly a belligerent tone.

Grandmother slowly straightened up, wiping her wet hands on the apron that she had put on to prepare the food for the piglet.

«What do you want, Rosa?»

«Your bloody chickens are in my garden again. Do something about it.»

«Oh, for heaven’s sake!» My grandmother quickly grabbed a stick and drove the silly chickens with their useless wings safely back to their own territory. Aunt Rosa’s husband, grandfather Shicka, arrived on the porch. He made funny penny whistles for us that would show a long rubber tongue if you blew into them. I had a collection of his whistles. This time the old man gave me a new whistle and a bowl of white currants he just put it my lap.

A large saucepan of water was boiling over the stove in our house. Grandma was going to give me a bath, and worst of all, wash my hair. The next day we expected a visit from the local priest (I didn’t know who he was, but I was already afraid in advance!). I was going to be baptized.

In the morning I was dressed up in a new gown, and my freshly washed hair was tied up with the bow I hated. The battle with my grandmother to wash my hair had been horrendous, but Grandma had won. She was a Polish noblewoman, after all! When my hair was tied back against my will, they made me sit on a bench inside the house. My deaf-and-dumb aunt Lisa sat next to me, but Grandma looked out of the window impatiently.

Only my elder sister, who was seventeen, chuckled in contempt, took a book and pointedly went out to the garden. She knew that my grandmother would have me christened against my parents’ wishes, even though my father was an army officer and a committed Communist. That was to be done secretly, that is why Grandma invited the priest to her house. I had no idea what was going to happen to me, but I tried to be brave and use all of my strength not to go into tears: I was not a baby any more, I was going to start school in September.

My parents had sent my sister and me to stay with our grandmother for the summer, to relax in the village and live on healthy country food. In the community area of the military camp where we lived then there was no access to natural milk or fruits.

Finally, the door opened, and a man with shaggy hair, dressed in a long black robe walked in. He spoke in a stately voice, «Blessings to this house. Bless you all.»

My grandmother and aunty rushed over to this large man and for some reason began to kiss his hand. I went cold, fearing that they would make me do the same. I thought to myself: that’s why they had dressed me up, just to kiss this big man’s hand, and if I did not, he would snatch me and put me into his big suitcase and drag me off to his «church’ that my grandmother always used to talk about.

I was petrified at the thought and tried to press myself deeper into the corner of the room in the hope that he wouldn’t notice me. No chance! The big man suddenly pointed at me with a thick finger, and laughed out loud.

Then he opened his case and began to take out some strange looking items: a long gold-colored tablecloth with a hole in the middle that he put around his neck, some gold-colored sleeves and other items I had no clue about. I closed my eyes in horror. Just before I was about to forget my pride and scream out loud, something warm and fragrant touched my head.

«The bow on your head is very pretty,» I heard suddenly and opened one eye. Someone stared at me closely, so that I could see the black pupils in his eyes and the red little sunshines around the pupils that radiated kindness. The man with the kind eyes patted my head again and chanted something long and reassuring. And so I was baptized.

«Next time I will give her communion, bring her to the church,» the wondrous man told my grandmother in his low voice before taking his leave.

My grandmother hurriedly crossed herself, and I ran out into the garden. I was bursting with some unfamiliar feeling and just wanted to share everything that had happened to me with my sister, to show her my beautiful cross. I ran over to her pulling the cross from under my dress and cried out, «Look what I’ve got!»

My sister reluctantly looked up from her book, glanced at the marvel that I was holding out in front of her, and hissed though clenched teeth, «Put that away you fool, and don’t show it to anybody else.»

I felt shocked. I stumbled and took a step back trying not to fall, and felt someone catch me: it was Grandma. I buried my face in her apron and cried for the first time on that day.

My mind returns to the present moment only when the priest touches my arm.

«What is the name of your son’s godmother?» he patiently repeats.

«Ah! Her name is Lydia.»

In my mind I ask my best friend if she agrees to be godmother to my son and at the same time I apologize for not asking her in the first place. Somehow I am sure that she will not have turned me down.

My son clumsily crosses himself, but he bows down gracefully, carefully holding the candle in his small hand. I am standing there looking at the pale gentle candle flame. It brings back memories.

On Sunday, very early in the morning, there was a Ukrainian market in our big ancient village that the old timers preferred to describe as a small town. It was loud and colorful; it was a genius’ inimitable masterpiece, with rapidly changing patterns like in a child’s kaleidoscope.

We lived in the heart of the village on the hill. Grandma’s garden went all the way down to the river, and the large marketplace across the river could be seen from our house. The river had the wonderful name of Rostavitsa. It was wide near the old watermill, but then surrounded the village like a silvery belt and in some places became little more than a creek.

A solid stone bridge stretched over the river, and carts drove rumbling over it early in the morning to get to the market. It was so pleasant to sleep to the sound of their incessant noise. During the night Grandmother would fry fish in the oven and bake biscuits and buns that she would sell to hungry villagers from afar.

At dawn, when the sun had just started raxing and showing from under its cloudy wrapper, Grandmother would gather up everything she had prepared into a bundle and head off to the market. I would carry on sleeping, and after I woke up, I would splash my face with cold water, lock up the cottage, and run off into my dreamland.