Kustar Work, Sarpinka Weaving

THERE WERE MANY FAMILIES like Christoph’s, with three to six bright children, growing up in families forever short of income. The sinewy, taciturn Norka men stoically and forever looked for means of changing their lot. Soon they began addressing the worries of survival by different means. Some of the men manufactured better farm implements in their free time. Working with the local smiths, they designed improved, stronger tools than could be bought in Saratov. From wooden rakes with iron teeth to razor sharp scythes, they made everything a bit better, more durable.

Those with a knack for producing good leather began to design fine harnesses and other tack during the months of winter idleness. The Russians called this kustar work, to distinguish it from factory production.

Importing briarwood started the production of fine pipes. These pipes were so handsome and well made that they were sold in many parts of the empire, providing a good living for the makers and the traveling salesmen. Christoph, the deacon, Peter Borchert and Kurt Halberstamm became experts at pipe carving. For a long time they had worked leather things, bridles, saddles, harnesses and other tack during the freeze of winter. Pipes, however, brought much more money on the market and were easier on the hands than the tough saddlery. Then the news arrived in Norka that there was money to be made from the weaving of cotton cloth.

During the 1760s the Moravian, or Herrnhuter Brethren, stemming from the original sect of Jan Hus, had formed a new colony at Sarepta. This community was situated a few hundred miles southwest of the Volga colonies. Here, living by strict communal oversight, they began to weave silk and wool into beautiful, colorful fabrics. However, the Moravians soon switched to weaving cotton, a less expensive, local and imported raw material that was easier to dye and weave. The Russians called the resulting calico material ‘sarpinka’, since it came from the region of the nearby Sarpa River. It was a much sought-after trading article. In fact, it had become the best-selling stuff at the great trading fair at Nizhnyi Novgorod.

Such success impressed the Norka people, whose very inborn traits were ambition and industry. They always looked out for profitable work. Since nature kept them in a perpetual state of uncertainty, earning extra money had become an obsession. Small wonder then that Norka colony, at the turn of the century, decided to send a delegation of people to the Moravians with the intent to learn sarpinka making. They were not alone in this pursuit; other villages in the Kamyshin District were about to do the same.

When Karin heard of the opportunity to learn the art of cloth making, she was gripped by a fierce desire to be one of the delegation. At night she lay awake, thinking of the designs one could weave into cloth, the colors one would be able to mix, making the world prettier. The village world was very drab. The spring flowers of the steppe succumbed soon to the searing sun, and there was little time and water to cultivate pleasing shrubs and flowers in the gardens.

The slender girl of yore had grown into a comely matron, whose pretty blond-streaked chestnut colored hair was perpetually hidden under the Kupftüchel, the headscarf. Her brown eyes, still shining warm, were now surrounded by the soft creases of time, and her mouth was more firmly set than before. When she advanced her thought that she, too, should be learning the craft of Sarepta, Christoph was dead set against the idea.

“What makes you think that I would approve of that?” he confronted her almost rudely. “Why would I like for you to go off spinning and weaving, leaving me alone with four children and the farm?”

Their children had grown, “better than my wheat,” as their father was wont to say. They were healthy, the boys robust and strong like their father, and the girls were fair faced, light complected with blond-brown hair like their pretty mother. They were the unabashed joy of their parents and grandparents. The latter had been much involved in their raising. They had lent willing heads and hands, and had given much time to the precious brood.

With art and advancement on her mind, Karin firmly believed that her family could do without her services for a few short weeks. It was the year 1798. For over twenty years, without fail, she had been wife, mother, and farmer. From a slight girl with few ambitions, unable to discern anything attainable besides the role of the married wife and motherhood, she had grown into a woman of substance. She was a woman sure of her strength, understanding of her weaknesses. She was aware that her husband fulfilled his dreams and ambitions through cooperative works with his father and friends, while her work was comprised of repetitive drudgery. With the advent of home industries she felt that she deserved a chance to develop her senses and abilities through artistry.

Had she not turned the barren, mud-bricked house into a home that radiated warmth? Had she not sewn pillows and curtains; had she not stuffed and upholstered furnishings? She had a highly developed sense for colors, for textures, a sense of what meshed and melded and that, which was incongruent. What she craved now was to go and learn something new, enabling her to use her senses, her talents.

However, she had not reckoned with Christoph’s displeasure. He had grown comfortable in his role as patriarch-householder. From his father he had learned the manifold duties and responsibilities of a man, of farming.

These duties he performed gladly, and with great pride. Along with this sense of leadership went the firm belief that his word and reckoning were final. Few men ever found fault with his reasoning, and those who did came well prepared with facts to back their words. Karin, however, had never challenged him. As both of them were even-tempered, complacent even in their common understanding, she never found it necessary to challenge Christoph outright.

Imagine his surprise, when his adored wife, the understanding one, the yielding and supporting one, stood up to him with icy courage, demanding that he allow her to go away for a few weeks to learn a trade; an art was what she called it.

“I would like you to give me leave to visit the Moravian Brethren, so I can study the art of weaving and coloring of cloth,” she said to him one day, as he carefully lowered wood stacked upon his arm into a large bin beside the stove. Every family member knew to fill the woodbin by bringing an armful when passing the wood stack by the stalls. Surprised by this strange request, Christoph dropped the wood and turned, facing Karin.

“Why would you travel so far to learn a trade when I have provided for you and the children all that you ever needed?” he asked, annoyed. “What were you ever lacking during our marriage? Food? Clothes? Furnishings? What is missing in your life that you must travel through half the land to learn how to weave cotton yarn?”

“I am not lacking for material things. My body has what it needs to thrive; however, my spirit craves refreshing,” she said in a strangely plaintive voice. “For twenty years I have been a wife and a mother without a moment’s rest. I feel there is little left of the girl you married. Let me go for a while, let me be myself. I might come back a better woman. I have prayed over this wish for many nights, and instead of foggy denials I received strong, clear visions of what I am to do. I know I can do beautiful things.” She looked at him in the certain way that always made him weak – unsure, contemplating. When she noted his uncertainty she continued, pressing her advantage.

“The harvest is finished, and so is the slaughter and preserving for winter. There is no better time for me to go. I want so much to go, to see and learn what could help us make some money to supplement the farming. I can’t stand living through another famine and see the children starve. Let me go, allow me to learn, do some artful things.”

“I need you here with me and the children. Your place is in the home. Do you forget, woman, that I am the leader of this family – the spiritual and corporal leader of our home? The Bible gives me authority to determine the lives of our family, and I say no to this undertaking,” countered Christoph hotly. However, that tone and argument only steeled his wife.

“Right! It is alright then for you to stay up nights, carving pipes and sundries for the market, leaving the floor filled with shavings for me to sweep, but it is only fitting for me to clean and cook? Well, these are my children, too, and I hope to have grandchildren soon. If I can improve their lives one iota, I will do so. I will leave you if you deny me this.”

She turned from him. Her face had become grave, her eyes sad and enormous, and around her mouth new creases were set in a determined way. Then she faced him once more to say with deadly calm, “Don’t use the children in your reasoning. It sounds absurd. They are more help than hindrance. Paul and Katharina are married and gone, and as for Maria and Kurt, she has a suitor and will be married in summer, and Kurt is twenty-three, strong as an ox and as good a help as you can wish for. He, too, will be married soon, this is why I think I must go now while we still have two at home.”

Her outburst silenced Christoph. He stood in front of the stove, which he had been feeding, his mouth agape at her outburst. This was their first big fight. They had never much disagreed on anything. Never had he heard such strong language from her. He always knew that she was a determined, strong woman, but he was unprepared for this terrible threat. Leaving him? What would he do without her? She and the children were his life. What else was there in the world? There was his faith, yes; he had God and his faith. However, his faith demanded family harmony, faithfulness.

He trusted her to follow through on her words. She would leave him, doing God only knew what. She was that kind of a woman. She’d never asked for much. He could recall her making few demands; they had mostly been for others – not herself. It dawned on him that this new desire was not a wish, a fancy, or a temporary infatuation with an idea that would run its course and, like a bad fever, recede and cool. No, he sensed a confrontation with a real need, a hunger, needing to be fed.

Defeated, he sank heavily upon a chair and groaned, “All right then, go. But do not stay one minute longer than you must.”

Karin was instantly pacified, contrite even, for having used such a horrible threat. It was something she could not have conjured up doing, and yet, at this particular moment, it had seemed the right thing to use against him.