A Bit of Family History…
This photo was taken in post-World War 2 Germany. On the left is my Grandpa Vladimir Pavlov. He died before I was born, so I never met him. Twenty years ago, my grandma remarried his close friend — Wes Stanchev (on the right) — and he became “Grandpa Wes.”
Grandpa Wes died in 2020 of a heart attack.
Vladimir Pavlov lived an interesting life. Born in Saint Petersburg, he was orphaned during the Russian Revolution. His father, a Captain, was killed in WW1, and his mother died of the Great Influenza. He studied chemistry at the University of Leningrad, until he was conscripted into two wars: the Russo-Finnish War and the WW2 Eastern Front. He survived WW2 as a POW — an experience which killed 57.5% of all Soviet POWs in German captivity. After the Americans liberated his POW camp (and after he lost teeth due to starvation), he worked at an American military garage in Germany, where he met “Grandpa Wes.” Because he had no family and no home (the Siege of Leningrad was the most destructive siege in human history), he decided to immigrate to America. He moved to LA, where he met my grandma, dancing at the “Polka Palace.” (Their first date was at a museum.) He was a musician, he spoke seven languages, and he was a relative of the Nobel Prize winner Ivan Pavlov (of “Pavlov’s Dogs”). I never met him, but I bet we would’ve had really interesting conversations. (“What was it like being in Saint Petersburg during the Russian Revolution?” “Did you ever see Rasputin wandering around?” etc.)
Grandpa Wes was born in Bulgaria. He survived WW2 as a forced laborer in Nazi Germany. Days before the war’s end, he escaped with a close friend, only to be strafed by an American fighter pilot thinking they were Germans. His friend was killed. He witnessed the meeting of the American and Soviet troops on the River Elbe. After meeting Grandpa Pavlov at the military garage, he maneuvered his way to America, where he was immediately drafted into the Korean War. He said my Grandpa Pavlov was the only person who ever wrote to him when he was on the front lines with the 11th Airborne. He expressed gratitude for this for the rest of his life.
After the war, he returned to Bulgaria to see his family, when his mother was killed in a bus accident. He never went back. His early life was full of tragedies, and he’d bitterly complain that “people live too long.” Still, he found contentment in my family. He used to pick me up from school, and we got to know each other. We ate at the Olive Garden in Torrance a few times a year for over 20 years. We’d order the same thing — Chicken Scampi, veggies on the side — and we’d have long conversations about history. (“What was it like being in Germany after the Battle of Stalingrad?” “Did the Germans know what it meant?” etc.) I miss that.
Although I never met Grandpa Pavlov, I knew he was intelligent, because Grandpa Wes was. I knew he was loyal, because Grandpa Wes was. And I knew he was ethical, because Grandpa Wes was. I told Grandpa Wes this before he died. He was grateful. He said I was the son he never had. And to me, he was the grandpa I never met.
This is my Grandpa Pavlov’s Leica that I recently inherited. The serial number is 177741, which means it was made in 1935, and it’s a Leica I “Standard” Model. My grandpa probably bought it used after he immigrated. He was poor, so that’s why he bought the “stripped down” version. I took it to a camera shop recently, and the owner gave me a $600 estimate to repair it. He called himself “the Ferarri of Leica repairmen.” (My gut says I’ll find a better deal elsewhere — ideally from “the Prius of Leica repairmen.”)
When I start posting grainy film photos, I’ll be shooting them with this.
