In the Russian language, the word for grandmother is babushka (BAH-boo-shka). A Russian babushka is a grandmother to all and has the right to express her opinion on any subject. I’ve seen a young mother reduced to a quivering mess as a babushka berated her for not dressing her baby warm enough. Most of my interactions with babushkas resulted in fear and trembling on my part. Until the day a band of babushkas came to my rescue.

In my previous post, I detailed a story about the murder of colleagues shortly after we moved to Far East Russia. A few days after the murders, I began to realize the power of the Russian babushka.

I heard the ring of our apartment’s doorbell and went to answer the door. I wondered who it might be, as we had only been living in this borrowed apartment for two weeks. We didn’t know very many people. I was home with my son and daughter, as my husband was out assisting with the details for our colleagues’ funeral.

Upon opening the door, I found myself surrounded by a band of babushkas that lived on our hallway. They were wearing the standard babushka uniform, a worn housedress with snaps or buttons running down the front, colorful scarves on their heads, and slippers that made scuffling sounds as they walked. Immediately, they began squawking at me, “Don’t let them in! Don’t let them in!” I looked around, wondering what all the fuss was about.

Then my gaze fell on two Russian police officers standing outside the babushka circle. Stiffly, they strode forward, and inquired, “Can we come in?”

Now, I had been warned many times about the rampant corruption in the Russian police force. My gaze flicked back and forth between the policemen and the babushkas. Straightening my spine, taking a deep breath, and in my best Russian, I said, “Nyet.” No.

I heard a horrified gasp behind me, then heard my young daughter whisper to our son, “Mom, told a policeman no!!”

Yes, I said, “no.” To a policeman. Of course, my children didn’t realize the extent of the fear behind my “no.”

I shakily stammered to the police, that I would speak with them in the hallway. The resident grandmas had told me not to let the police in, and I felt safer surrounded by my band of babushkas.

I quickly realized that the police planned to question me about our colleagues’ murder. They showed me pictures, asked all sorts of questions that I was unable to answer.

Now, I confess, my Russian was not very good at that point. For some weird reason, we hadn’t learned the words murder and homicide investigation in our language class. My criminal vocabulary was sadly lacking. And my knees were shaking so hard, I could barely stand much less put together a coherent sentence in Russian. My son stood behind me, trying to feed me words when my brain froze, and nothing came out of my quivering mouth.

Suddenly my babushka brigade went into attack mode and took over the conversation. The grandmas knew all the words! They told the police we had only lived in the apartment for two weeks, that we didn’t have anything to do with the murders and that we were too dumb to know anything. I might have been hurt by their description, except it was correct. We were dumb. And at that point, pretty much speechless.

How I loved the picture playing out in front of me. Several diminutive elderly ladies, work-worn fingers wagging, forceful words and spittle flying, eyes flashing fire, slowly backed the policemen down the hall to the exit. It was a glorious sight. At that moment, I fell in love with each of my “angel” babushkas.

The police officers turned to leave, and I heard them muttering, “Next time, we’ll bring a translator.”

I wanted to high-five the babushkas but was pretty sure that wouldn’t translate, so I simply thanked them for their help.

The police came back a couple more times, but each time my babushka brigade chased them from the building.

Yes, in the midst of this trial, God had sent some “angels” to walk alongside me. God is always with us, but how I needed an angel with skin. These angels had deeply lined faces and backs bent from years of labor, but they were beautiful in my eyes.

My band of babushkas.

Russian Nesting Dolls