George Tretiakoff

When my husband, David, and I moved to San Francisco in January of 1972, just after we got married, we searched for an apartment immediately. We were sleeping on the floor of his former roommates’ apartment until we could find our own home. It was, to say the least, not comfortable, and we had no privacy!

So, each day for a couple weeks, we looked for an apartment. Most landlords were still recovering from “the Summer of Love”, (1967) when all the Hippies landed and were less than desirable tenants. David had long hair, and was a student at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music. That fact eliminated us from renting most apartments as soon as we met the landlords.

Paul Roloff, however, was a different sort. He appreciated Music, and he also knew how serious a student one had to be to be accepted into the prestigious Conservatory. Paul showed us the 3rd floor apartment that had recently been renovated for his business partner, George Tretiakoff. It was really lovely, with hardwood floors, wonderful kitchen cabinetry, and plenty of room for us newlyweds. Paul explained that the available unit on the second floor, just below George’s apartment, was in the process of being renovated, but should be done in a couple weeks. IF we didn’t mind living in the partially completed space while they finished it, we could move is that week. We were thrilled, and Paul welcomed us as his new tenants. It was a nine-unit building at 120 Alma Street in San Francisco; seven of the units were finished and rented, and ours made eight. The one below us was being used to store tools, etc.

So, we moved in amidst the renovation. There was sheetrock everywhere, and dust from its sanding. The kitchen had no cabinets or counters, but it did have a refrigerator (complete with cockroaches living in the bottom), a stove, and a hose poised over a 50-gallon plastic barrel that served as a water source!
Unfortunately for Paul (and for us!), he contracted pneumonia, and was ill for several weeks. Progress ground to a halt, and we survived by “cooking” pot pies and toast in our wedding gift toaster oven. It was dismal for several weeks, but things eventually improved. I never got the full lovely kitchen, but did end up with a countertop and some shelves.

The bright spot in all of this was that our other landlord, George Tretiakoff, lived above us. George was a native of Siberia, who had emigrated to the U.S. in 1951. He was about 5’8″ tall, very muscular, and had a twinkle in his eyes. His charming Russian accent gave him the gravitas that I expected in such an intriguing character; his laugh was full-throated, and his smile was magical.

As I got to know this unusual man, I learned that he had fled his birthplace of Hailar, Manchuria, and settled in Shanghai. He later became one of many Russians who ended up in a refugee camp on the island of Tubabao, Philippines.

He made his way to the United States and settled in San Francisco in 1951, where he owned and operated an electrical company, and partnered in the purchase of our building with Paul Roloff.

What I remember most about George, is the incredible joie de vivre of the man. He always found a way to inject so much excitement and joy into simple things or events. It seemed like he wanted to squeeze every bit of juice out of LIFE every day. I loved that about him. He was perceptive, sensitive, tender, and kind; but if his temper flared, you could see the strength just below the surface. A real survivor.

We lived in that building for two and a half years. During that time we shared moments with George that I shall always treasure. Once he bought us tickets to a poetry reading by the great Russian poet, Yevgeny Yevtushenko. He knew we were poor, so he treated us to an evening we would never have been able to enjoy otherwise. He knew I had studied Russian in college, and that I was fascinated by all things Russian. George paid attention to people. I loved that about him.

Many decades later, I found him through the internet. He was living in Clearlake, California, and was not physically healthy. He remembered me, and we had a nice conversation. I believe he died not too long after that call. I got in touch with one of his daughters, who sent me the attached photo of George with his ex-wife, her Mom.

Sometimes the angels bring you to a person from whom you learn important lessons when you are young. George was strong, kind, and joyful. I loved that about him.