The Samovar

 

Ramblings of a Retired Mind: The Samovar

A few weeks ago, I opened my laptop and checked my email. My inbox was overflowing with offers—each more ridiculous than the last.

One promised free samples, no strings attached—unless you count handing over all your personal information as a string. Another urged me to “sponsor” a lovely young woman fleeing the devastation in Ukraine. Just one click to connect—though if blondes aren’t your thing, brunettes were available too.

Two messages later, I was greeted with a miracle product that guaranteed to banish every trace of lime and rust from my toilet. “Never use a toilet brush again!” it proudly proclaimed.

Sifting through my inbox felt like panning for gold—only instead of nuggets, I kept pulling up spam and promotional sludge.

An Email That Mattered

About twenty messages down, I finally found an email from someone I knew: my cousin Alice.

Alice is my father’s second cousin—technically my second cousin once removed—and the official keeper of our family’s genealogical record on my father’s paternal side. For decades, she’s collected photos, stories, and relics tied to our great-great-grandparents, the Soboroff family.

The most famous story in our lineage is the escape from pre-revolutionary Russia.

The Journey From Russia

My great-great-grandfather, Hirsh Soboroff, was a renowned tailor living on the vast estate of a Russian prince somewhere between Moscow and St. Petersburg. The prince allowed only Hirsh to craft the clothes that adorned his royal body.

By 1892, unrest in Russia signaled the eventual collapse of the centuries-old dynasty. Hirsh saw the signs—it was time to leave. He appealed to his patron, who, moved by the plea, arranged for exit documents for Hirsh and his immediate family. Along with the visas, the prince entrusted Hirsh with a generous sum of money, carefully sewn into the linings of their clothing for the journey.

The extended Soboroff family had already immigrated to Chicago two years earlier. With Hirsh’s tailoring skills and that seed money, they started a small business making scarves and hats.

But Alice’s email revealed something I had never known: Hirsh brought with him a single treasured possession—a brass samovar.

Discovering the Samovar

Alice explained in her email that she now possessed this heirloom but worried about its future. Her children weren’t interested in keeping it, so she wanted to offer it to me.

Along with her note, Alice sent three photos of the samovar. Until then, I’d never heard the word, let alone realized that Alice had the very one Hirsh carried from Russia to Chicago.

To explain: a samovar is a metal urn used to heat water for tea. Traditionally, a vertical pipe filled with burning charcoal or wood runs through the center. Heated water is drawn from a spigot at the bottom, while a teapot sits atop the chimney to brew a strong tea concentrate—zavarka—later diluted with the hot water.

This particular samovar is polished brass, twenty-four inches high. The original teapot is long gone, but when I saw the photos and understood its connection to my heritage, my answer was immediate and wholehearted: yes.

A Symbol of Hospitality

Samovars aren’t just functional tea kettles—they’re symbols of Russian hospitality. Historically, they were the centerpiece of family life and social gatherings. I could imagine Hirsh and his family drinking tea around it, reminiscing about the day, perhaps even serving his patron from its spout.

Alice also promised to send the only other Soboroff heirlooms she had—our family’s Shabbat candlestick holders.

The Arrival

Ten days later, a box arrived via UPS. I had warned my wife that two heirlooms were coming. While she didn’t exactly cheer at the news, she gave me a look of resigned acceptance.

When I opened the box, the samovar took my breath away. It was far more impressive than the photos. As I examined it, I noticed two small holes in the lid. Alice assured me it had always been that way. Some online digging revealed those holes once held small wood knobs with brass accents, used to twist the lid open.

A quick search led me to a seller offering knobs from a similar samovar. I ordered them—only realizing afterward that the seller was in Israel. It took over a month for them to arrive, but when they did, they fit perfectly and matched the handles exactly.

When I sent photos of the restored samovar to Alice, she was moved to tears.

Finding Its Place

The only challenge now is figuring out where to display it. To me, the samovar is a tangible link to my family’s past—a bridge across generations. To my wife, it’s a heavy piece of cold brass.

For now, it rests on the floor of our family room, waiting for a place of honor. Like my ancestors who once searched for a new home, I find myself searching for the right spot to preserve their legacy.

This heirloom is more than just an object—it’s a living thread that connects me to the past and to the people who made my life possible. Every time I look at the Samovar, I’m filled with a profound sense of joy and pride. It reminds me that I am the child of immigrants who arrived in this country with almost nothing and built a new life through perseverance and hope.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental.