My mother quickly dressed and left. I couldn’t sleep anymore. I began shaking with fear. What did they want from her? What if they arrest her and put her in jail and I never see her again? What will happen to Antek and me?
I heard other people moving in their bunks. Ivan’s knock and shout had awakened them, too, but nobody came to console me. I was alone, with Antek sleeping peacefully next to me.
Time dragged on. I didn’t know how many hours were passing, but the night seemed very long. Even if I had had a watch, it was too dark to see anything. The one small oil lamp that we had on the table was turned off.
I tried to think of happy times in Poland: our vacations in the Karpaty (Carpathian) Mountains, swimming in the clear water of flowing rivers, hiking, and stopping for a picnic under the shade of pine trees. But my thoughts kept returning to my mother. What were they doing to her?
Tocha, my mother’s youngest sister, played with me during one summer vacation in the Karpaty Mountains, one of our family’s favorite places.
I wanted to jump out of bed and run to the office to save her, but I knew that I was helpless against the people who held her. And maybe I was afraid to face the fact that she might be gone; maybe I wanted to hold on a little longer to the hope that she would come back. Finally, the door opened, and there was my mother, pale and tired but smiling at me. She embraced me and held me close while I cried with joy at having her back.
“What did the NKVD want from you?” I asked.
“Everything is fine. Don’t worry. They just asked me a few questions about your father.”
A few questions took all night? I thought. But I knew that she would not tell me anything more.
After my mother thought I had fallen back asleep, I heard her talking to Pani Rzewuska and Babcia. “The NKVD directed lamps at my face and repeated the same questions about my husband over and over, trying to wear me out. They wanted me to sign a confession that my husband had been a judge before the war, but I refused. I told them he was an accountant, because for some reason the Communists consider that to be a non-threatening occupation. I also said that I did not know where he was—which is the truth. I was so afraid that they would take me away and I would never see my children again. The Soviets invaded my country, seized my home, all my possessions, and deprived me of my freedom—what else do they want from me?” she cried.
Hearing the emotion in my mother’s voice made my heart ache for her and what she had been through. But at the same time, I was so relieved to have her back after all those hours of waiting that I was finally able to relax and fall asleep.
After that night, every time we saw a truck by the office we knew that the NKVD had arrived at the kolkhoz. Antek and Janek were usually the ones to run to our shack, shouting, “They’re here!”
Sometimes the NKVD would leave during the day, but on other occasions they would stay into the night, and my mother, or somebody else in our group, would be awakened from her sleep and called to the office for interrogation. Every time this happened I went through the same agony of waiting, praying, and fearing the worst.
Doesn’t the NKVD ever sleep? Why do they do everything at night? I asked myself during those tormented hours. They arrested us in the middle of the night, and now they won’t leave my mother alone. Are they so ashamed of what they are doing that they are trying to cover up their deeds in the dark? All I knew was they were mean and cruel and I hated them. I had been taught to forgive our enemies, but I could not find it in my heart to forgive the NKVD.
September, the beginning of fall, brought relief from the unbearable heat of the summer days and the swarms of mosquitoes. There was never enough to eat, and we had all lost weight and grown skinny—except for my mother, who was getting fatter. I wondered how that was possible.
One day Ivan came to our shack and ordered my mother and Pani Rzewuska to lift the heavy tables that stood in the middle of it. One was needed for the office, and since everybody else was working in the fields, my mother and Pani Rzewuska were the only ones who could do it. That evening my mother said she wasn’t feeling very well.
In our shack, sheets and blankets hung from the ceiling to the bottoms of the bunks, forming partitions between each family to create a sense of some privacy. I saw my mother whisper something to Pani Irena, whose bunk was at the very end of the shack. Pani Irena came to me and said, “Get your nightgown. Tonight you and Antek will sleep next to my daughters.” I thought this was a very strange request, but it didn’t occur to me to question her. I was used to obeying adults. I had learned a long time ago that there was always a reason for what they said, but often nobody bothered to explain anything to children.
Antek and I fell asleep immediately. In the middle of the night I woke to the sound of moaning and crying. Listening attentively, I recognized my mother’s voice. I was just about to jump out of bed when Pani Rzewuska appeared by my side and whispered, “Do not go anywhere near your mother; she is very sick. Pray for her very hard—let’s pray together. Our Father who art in heaven …” Were there tears in her eyes, or was it my imagination?
I peeked out from behind the curtain and saw the veterinarian sitting on the opposite bunk. I knew who he was because I had seen him tending to the cows in the barn. But what was he doing here?
“Go back to sleep now,” Pani Rzewuska said.
But I couldn’t sleep. My body was shaking with fear. I wanted to help my mother, to stop her pain. I looked out, past the curtain, again, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light shed by the one oil lamp sitting on the table, I noticed Pani Rzewuska and Pani Irena moving silently, carrying towels and a bucket of water.
Eventually I fell asleep. I dreamed that a baby was crying. Was it a dream?
When I woke up again the early light was pouring into the shack through the only window, illuminating the rows of hanging blankets. My first thought was to see my mother. I jumped out of the bunk and ran to our space.
My mother was in bed, looking very pale. She smiled, embraced me, and held me very close. Why was she so especially happy to see me? I wondered. But I didn’t ask any questions.
A few days after that strange night I was with my friend Ashana. By now I had learned a few more Russian and Kazakh words and could understand her better. She said, “I heard that a baby was born to somebody. Do you know anything about this?”
“No, I don’t,” I replied.
But I knew that everybody was hiding something from me. I could tell by the whispers and glances that began whenever I walked into the shack.
I went to my mother. “I know from Ashana that a baby was born here. Tell me the truth.”
My mother took my hand, and we walked out into the hills. The weather was getting colder, and dark clouds were gathering in the sky. There was a feeling of foreboding in the air.
My mother pointed to a pile of stones covering a hole at the bottom of one of the hills. “You had a baby sister,” she said. “She was born too soon.” Without a doctor, hospital, or incubator, she explained, the baby had died.
I was stunned by her words. Then I felt anger beginning to build, overcoming me. “Why did you let her die?” I screamed. “Why didn’t you let me see her? I always wanted a sister! How could you do this to me?” Although my words were directed at my mother, part of me knew that I wasn’t really upset with her; I was expressing my fury at our fate and blaming the Soviets who had put us in this horrible situation.
“It is better that this happened,” my mother answered in a resigned tone. “The baby would have died sooner or later from malnutrition or disease. She had no chance of survival in the conditions we are living in now.
“Pani Rzewuska baptized her and named her Barbara,” she continued. “She and the old Kazakh Kuran put her into a shoebox and buried her here, behind those rocks.”
My mother looked so sad that the anger left me. In its place was sorrow—for her as well as for me. Tears rushed down my cheeks; I cried and cried, mourning my sister.
“Be
happy that I am alive and able to take care of you,” my mother said. “I didn’t want you to be hurt.”
“What about Tatuś?” I asked. “He will be very sad when he hears about this.”
My mother replied, “Yes, he will be sad, but he will understand.”
She embraced me, and we slowly walked back together in silence.
I didn’t know where babies came from, and didn’t know that my mother had nearly died during the delivery.
10
Enduring the Winter
Winter was coming, and with it the fear of being left without fuel during the harsh weather ahead. During the summer Litka, Janek, my brother Antek, and I had gathered dry cow and sheep manure that covered the pastures surrounding the kolkhoz. It burned well, with no bad smells. It couldn’t be stored, because it soon disintegrated into sand, so the workers on the kolkhoz had a special method for hardening it. They mixed the fresh manure with straw, formed it into bricks in special wooden containers that had been made for that purpose, dried it in the sun, watered it, and then dried it again. After they repeated this process several times, the mixture hardened and was ready to be distributed to NKVD officials and barn managers.
One day Litka said to me, “We can do that ourselves.”
“What, gather fresh manure and mix it with our hands?” I exclaimed.
“So what? Do you want to freeze in the winter?”
“No, I don’t. We’ll have to do it.”
The next day Litka’s mother, Pani Kulakowska, managed to get tin buckets for us. Litka and I followed the cows and goats that were grazing on the hills. Some of the shepherds were not too happy to see us and chased us away, but most of them allowed us to gather the fresh manure. The only way to pick it up was to use pieces of plywood that we found around one of the barns. Then we had to carry our full buckets to a sunny, flat, and dry surface next to the wall of our shack and spread the manure on the ground. We added straw to it and formed rounds that looked like huge pancakes. We let them dry, sprayed them with water, and then let them dry again. Antek and Janek wanted to help, but we considered them too young and allowed them only to gather straw and carry water. Except for the stench, it was like making mud pies in the sand. Since we had no toys or books and didn’t go to school, this was a good way of entertaining ourselves.
One day Natasha, the NKVD official who was in charge of the kolkhoz, walked by as we were working. She stopped and praised us. “Great job. Your kiziaki look good. I can see that you are hard workers. Next year you will be allowed to sort potatoes to benefit the kolkhoz.”
“Is that going to be our future?” whispered Litka.
“Be quiet. She might hear us,” I warned.
“She doesn’t understand Polish. And I hate her,” Litka retorted angrily.
“So do I, but we have to be careful about what we say.” I wanted to cry but knew that I couldn’t change our situation. We had to finish before dark, so, with a heavy heart, I continued to work.
When we were satisfied that the kiziaki were hard enough, we carried them inside the shack and stored them behind the stove, in the space provided for that purpose. Babcia, Janek’s grandmother, watched us and said, “You should be proud of what you have done. Let’s hope there will be enough fuel to last until spring.”
By early November the weather was getting colder and colder. Food was scarce, and I was always hungry. I got sick and had to stay in bed. My mother was sure that I had a kidney problem and fed me unsalted hot water with buckwheat swimming in it, which she called soup. This was the only treatment she could give me.
Luckily a parcel arrived from my aunt in Poland. It was one of the few that were not stolen, and it contained rice, sugar, and chocolate, as well as a drawing pad and box of crayons for me and a little red car for Antek. We were thrilled, even though my mother said, “We will have to ration what we received so that it will last longer.”
Our joy was short lived. That same afternoon somebody knocked on the door. Lila opened it. Two unfamiliar NKVD, wearing their dark-green uniforms, entered and nodded slightly in greeting. I was surprised to see them because usually they came at night and ordered people to the office. Ivan and Natasha were not with them.
“Zdravstuyte, we have come to take your children away to the dietkommune.” One of the men looked at the list and read, “Two children from the Mihulka family and one from Lala Dombrowska’s.” That meant me, Antek, and Janek.
I pulled the bedcovers over my head. My body shivered and my teeth started to chatter. I understood that he was going to take us to an orphanage. Trying to stay invisible, I peeked out from under the blanket without drawing attention to myself. My brother had grabbed my mother tightly and was holding onto her, burrowing his head into her neck. Janek was on his grandmother’s lap, not quite understanding what was going on. His mother, Lala, was sobbing loudly.
My mother screamed in her broken Russian, “You are not going to take my children away! Over my dead body! You took my country, my home, destroyed my life, and now you think that you can take my children away?”
One of the NKVD said, “This is for the good of the children. We will give them food and an excellent education, and we will bring them up as loyal Communists for the glory of the Soviet Union.”
My mother shrieked back, “My daughter is sick. You cannot take a sick child in this weather. I will never let you take my children away. Do you have any children? How would you like your children to be taken away from you?”
The taller, older NKVD, who seemed to be the senior one, whispered something to the other man. The man walked outside.
My heart was pounding. What would be next? Would they use force to take us away?
Then the unexpected happened. The remaining NKVD took off his hat, put it over his heart, and replied, “Yes, I have two children, but I have to obey my orders. I will not take your children away today, but in three days I will be back. By that time your daughter will get better and be able to travel. Do svidania. Goodbye.” He turned around, put his hat back on his head, and walked out.
The next three days were the longest of my life. I could not imagine going to a Russian orphanage. I prayed for a miracle. “Please, God, help us. Don’t take us away from our mother. Have mercy on us and send us a miracle.”
The third day came, and by the afternoon there was still no NKVD car in sight.
“They like to come at night,” Babcia reminded us.
“You are a pessimist; you do not believe in miracles,” retorted my mother.
But a miracle did happen. The snow came down and covered the ground so high that no car or oxcart could travel in it. The NKVD would not be able to get through. I started to breathe more easily, and my health started to improve.
I often wondered why the door to our shack opened toward the inside, and not out, and why a long ladder was kept indoors near the door. When winter came, I found out. When the snow fell, it was so high that it nearly reached the top of the roof. The only way to get out was to open the door and shovel the soft snow into buckets. (We needed the melted snow for drinking and washing, as we had no running water.) When enough snow had been cleared away for the ladder to be taken outside, it was propped against the snow that had already hardened, forming a wall. If we needed to get out of the shack, we would climb up the ladder. On days when it was not snowing, buckets full of snow could be taken up the ladder and thrown out. Sometimes axes had to be used instead of shovels.
One day, as it was getting toward evening, Babcia asked me to come with her to get some milk at the barn. “Now is the milking time,” she said, “and if we are lucky, they will sell it to us. I would like you to come with me.”
“Dobrze. Okay,” I replied.
I put on a warm coat, gloves, and my long boots called pimy, which were made of sheepskin and did not let the cold penetrate, and tied a woolen scarf around my head. Ordinary shoes and boots were not suitable for the Russian climate, so my mother had bought us pimy. Some people called them valenki.
My mother was busy at the stove at the other end of the shack, so I didn’t tell her I was leaving. It hadn’t snowed for several days, so somebody had left the ladder outside. Babcia and I climbed up and headed toward the barn. The ground was crusted over, and we had no trouble walking on the firmly packed snow.
In the harsh Kazakhstan winter, we wore boots like these, which some people called pimy and others called valenki. © Kokhanchikov/Shutterstock.com
The milking was in progress, and we had to wait a long time. The supervisor, a short, muscular woman, came around and asked us, “Do you have a permit to buy the milk?”
Babcia’s Russian was very bad. She said, “Ne ponimayu. I don’t understand.”
I couldn’t help her, because I didn’t know anything about permits. The supervisor waved her hand in dismissal and walked away.
Disappointed, we walked outside into the freezing-cold night. Snow started falling so heavily that we couldn’t see any chimneys of the buildings below. Babcia started walking in the opposite direction from our shack. I knew she was wrong. “Nie, nie,” I insisted, “this is not the right way to go.” Babcia kept pulling me, and I resisted.
Suddenly we saw glowing lights moving toward us in the darkness. The village was covered in snow up to the rooftops, so they could not have been coming from any windows. I didn’t know what the lights were, but I knew that we had to find our way home as quickly as possible. Please, God, guide us, I prayed silently.
Babcia was slowing down, puffing and panting with exhaustion. More and more lights glistened in the dark. What were they?
In the distance a wisp of smoke drifted out of the flat, snow-covered ground.
“Look, Babcia, maybe it’s our shack. Szybko, szybko! Hurry, hurry!” I pulled her with all the strength I could muster, until we reached the smoky area.
Luckily the end of the ladder was still visible. The steps were covered with snow, so I started sliding down, but only far enough to bang on the door. My mother opened it, but first she had to get a shovel to push the snow aside to get me. Babcia was still at the top waiting to be rescued by Lala and Pani Irena.
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