In the 1930s Ippolit Grigoryevich Belinskiy lived with us - a man of medium age, i.e. about 35-36 years old. He worked in the planning department of the Mansk timber industry enterprise. He was a many-sided man: he knew how to lead good conversations; even we, the children, used to listen to him devoutly, struck dumb with amazement, whenever he told something. Ippolit Grigoryevich was not only a talented interlocutor, but also an excellent musician from birth. He played many instruments outstandingly well, among them - the guitar, violin, mandolin, balalaika, bayan and even wooden spoons. He said that he was able to play the pianino, too, but unfortunately Belinskiy did not own any. Ippolit Grigoryevich's posture was martial. Upright. He was of a medium corpulence and build. He was always dressed with utmost accuracy - without a single crinkle or pucker. Knickerbockers and chrome leather boots, which he had given a fine shine. And he was sociable. This even did not escape our attention, although we were children yet.
He was born in Kamenets Podolsk or at least in its nearer surroundings. He was married and had two daughters. His family lived in their home country for the time being. Nevertheless he loved his family a lot and was a devoted husband and father, since he never became acquainted with other women, and they also did not invite him.
In the evening, when he has some spare time, he takes an album from the table and calls for me or my mum: "Look at my girls. This picture I haven't shown you yet. Nice girls, aren't they?" - "Very pleasant", mum replies. And I am quite astonished about why Ippolit Grigoryevich sits there with his album every day, to be more precise, every evening before bedtime. Is he not yet tired of looking at all these photographs?
I well remember that Ippolit Grigoryevich organized a choir and a music group. And he just loved to join in amateur play activities. Many of the mobilized amateurs had never held a guitar or bayan in their hands before, but he now taught them with patience and success how to play them. He often went fishing and took me and my friend Avreliya with him to the banks. We found worms for him by digging in the ground and Ippolit Grigoryevich sat on the river banks with two or three fishing-rods and carefully watched if any fish would bite. We were happy about any caught dace. When we were too noisy the angler sitting beside would shake a warning finger at us, but we did not fear him. We knew that he would not punish us.
Having come home in the evening, we shared the fish among the three of us. We, the ten year old girls, were delighted about our part of fish and solemnly handed it over to our mother. But instead of praising us, she scolded us: "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves! The whole evening this poor guy has been bitten by mosquitos and you are happy about a catch belonging to someone else!"
"Natalya Yevgenyevna, do not scold. We are always so cheerful when we spend the time together. I love children. They brighten our lives."
We lived with Ippolit Grigoryevich Belinskiy in one and the same house for four years and never heard a single unfriendly word from him during this time. I do not know, whether or not he was a member of the Communist party. I was not interested in such things at that time, and I did not understand anything about it either. I am convinced that he was a loyal son of his fatherland - in the same way as he was a devote father to his children, the two fair-haired girls with the sticking out pigtails.
Hard times began. Mass arrests set in. They came for Urban - the director of the timber industry enterprise, Pshenko - his representative, my dad - the head bookkeeper Andrey Mikhailovich Sokolovskiy and many, many other people, about who I want to write in my next letter. In the summer of 1938 they arrested Ippolit Grigoryevich. It was in the dead of a starlight night, when he left the house. He looked up to the sky and said: "What a wonderful night!"
All the children from the neighboorhoud called him Uncle Polya. And I always said for fun: "Uncle Pelageya comes back from fishing." And for that mum several times scolded me.
He went away .... He disappeared and we never heard of him again.
Those nocturnal visitors took Belinskiy's album with them and probably the address of his relatives, as well. Everything was searched through and the place later looked as after a bomb explosion. I will never believe anyone who declares that Ippolit Grigoryevich had been capable of any mean acts.
Narva,
L.A. Gorelova