Once they left, we prepared for our departure. On a gray, overcast morning in late September, we packed our bundles and suitcases onto an oxcart. The Kazakh driver wore the customary round fur hat and gray coat, and the black hair of his beard was parted in the middle.
We traveled on the same bumpy, sandy road that had brought us here in May 1940, 16 months ago. Now we were no longer prisoners, but the road to complete freedom was not clear to us. Would we ever get out of Russia? I wondered.
We passed the hill and rocks where my baby sister was buried. I said a silent prayer: “We have to leave you here. We will never see you smile and grow up with us. May God and His angels look after you.”
The slow movement of the cart put me to sleep. I awoke when I felt water on my face. It had stared to drizzle. I opened my little green umbrella, but my mother had only a woolen scarf to cover her head.
“Move closer to me, Antek,” I instructed. I tried to cover both of us, but soon the drizzle developed into a steady rain that made our journey slower than anticipated. The visibility was poor. I knew that very soon the normally sun-scorched grasslands would turn into mud and we might get stuck on the road.
Darkness engulfed us, and we were still traveling. Near midnight we passed the dark shadows of some houses. No lights showed in any windows; the inhabitants were surely asleep. We heard the whistle of a train.
“Let’s hope that’s the Georgiewka railway station,” my mother said.
Though it was still some distance away, voices were audible, and as we got nearer the noises grew louder. Soon a long building loomed before us. An oil lamp hung above the huge double door.
The cart stopped.
“Vykhodite,” announced our driver, indicating that we should climb down. He helped us unload. I carried one suitcase, and my brother had a backpack. My mother had two suitcases.
“Do svidania, spasibo,” she thanked the driver.
We walked into a big hall where very bright electric lights illuminated a crowd of people speaking a variety of languages: Russians, Kazakhs, Uzbeks, and Ukrainians. I even thought I heard some Polish. The hall was so full that we were crammed into one corner. We were wet, cold, tired, and hungry. The odor of sweaty, dirty bodies was overpowering, but we were glad to have a roof over our heads and no longer feel the rain falling on us.
I heard a voice calling, “Two rubles kipiatok, two rubles kipiatok.” Many people rushed toward him.
“Stay here with Antek and don’t move. Watch the suitcases,” my mother said.
She took a big tin mug out of a bag and went to stand in line. I didn’t know how much Antek understood of our situation, but he never complained. He cooperated and didn’t stray from us.
When my mother came back she poured the hot water equally into smaller tin mugs and gave each of us a piece of dried bread that she had saved for our journey. The warm liquid helped take away the cold penetrating my body.
I fell asleep sitting on a suitcase, despite the glaring lights and the loud voices of Russian soldiers drinking vodka and singing a popular song: “Vikhodila na biereg Katiusha, na vysokiy biereg nad rekoi. Katiusha was waiting on a bank, on a high bank of a river.”
The whistle of a train jerked me out of my sleep. But the train passed without stopping. My mother went to buy tickets and to ask about the schedule. She returned with bad news. “If a train is full, it doesn’t stop. I don’t know how long we will have to wait at this station.”
The morning light penetrated the windows high above the hall. People started lining up on the platform. We moved outside, too, and tried to position ourselves so we would be able to get on a train if it stopped. After a couple of hours I heard a train approaching. “Please, God, let it stop,” I prayed. It did stop, and the crowd pushed forward. At each door of the train stood a soldier holding a rifle and keeping anyone from boarding. The Russian soldiers waiting with us had priority; Hitler was marching toward Moscow, and the soldiers were going to the front to fight. No other passengers were allowed to board.
We sat on the platform all day. Three trains went by, one every two hours, and none of them stopped. From time to time we got up, stamped our feet, and waved our arms to keep warm.
“Children,” my mother instructed, “the next time a train stops we have to push our way in. Krysiu, remember to hold Antek’s hand tightly. Do not let go of him. I’ll carry the luggage and I’ll be right behind you as we move toward the door.”
Finally, in the evening, one of the trains did stop. The doors opened, and a mass of bodies rushed forward. People shoved from all directions. Suddenly a tall, fat woman in a thick gray coat blocked my way. My face was pressed against her large bottom. In one hand I held Antek’s hand and in the other my little umbrella. I thrust the umbrella into the woman’s back. I doubted that she felt it through the thick fabric of her coat, but as she leaned toward the wagon’s steps, I followed. At that moment a huge bundle of someone’s belongings fell on our heads. My mother screamed, “Dieti, dieti! Children, children!” and pushed the bundle away with her hand. I was barely aware of what was going on behind me as I reached for the steps and pulled Antek. I managed to climb up into the train, pulling Antek with me, and we both fell into the dark passage, on top of the people already sitting there. “Watch out!” someone screamed. I stood up and then, squeezing between people, found a spot on the floor to sit down, hugging Antek closer to me.
The train started moving. I panicked. “Mamusiu, Mamusiu, where are you?”
I heard her voice. “I’m here. Don’t worry.”
I sighed in relief, even though I couldn’t see her.
After many hours the morning light shone through the small window in the passage and I could see my mother, a few feet away, perched on our suitcases. Her dark-brown coat from Poland contrasted with the gray jackets worn by the two middle-aged women sitting next to her.
She smiled at me and Antek and said, “When we stop, listen carefully to the conductor’s announcement. If he announces Semipalatynsk, then quickly get ready to leave and follow me.”
I was exhausted. The rhythmic movement of the wheels put me to sleep. The conductor’s voice woke me up: “Semipalatynsk, Semipalatynsk.” I felt the train slowing down and stopping.
In an instant everyone around me moved and pressed toward the door. I didn’t want to lose sight of my mother. I squeezed between two men, again pulling Antek with me. The pressure of the bodies practically threw us down the steps. My mother was standing on the platform, and we rushed to her.
People were leaving, and a new crowd was boarding the train. I looked around, hoping to see Zosia or Nina.
After a while I spotted someone waving and running toward us.
“Thank God you are here!” shouted Zosia. “We’ve been taking turns all week waiting for you at the station, watching every passing train. We found accommodations, and we gave our names to the Polish Committee, who will try to find our father.”
Bending forward against the piercing gusts of cold wind, heads lowered, we walked out into the street. I felt so relieved that our journey was over—at least for now.
13
A Seemingly Endless Wait
My mother and Antek stretched their arms toward me, but I couldn’t reach them. I felt glued to the platform, watching the train move farther and farther away from me. The crowd around me—Russian women in their colorful scarves tied under their chins, Kazakhs in their round fur hats, and Russian soldiers drinking vodka—were jeering and laughing.
“Stop the train!” I screamed. “Don’t leave me. No! No!”
“Krysiu, Krysiu, wake up.” My mother was shaking my arm. I opened my eyes. I was lying on a bed that faced a small window. She and Zosia, Nina, Ciocia Stefa, and Antek stood around the bed.
“I had a nightmare,” I realized. “I thought you left me behind at the station.”
Zosia had brought us here yesterday from the Semi-palatynsk station. Ciocia Stefa had rented one room from a Russian woman who had four daug
hters and whose husband was in the army. She let us live with her in order to supplement her income. Although everything in Russia belonged to the state, when the government allotted her this dwelling, she was allowed to share it with others. Accommodation in Semipalatynsk was scarce, and as long as she registered our names with the police, nobody cared.
The room had beds made of wooden planks nailed into round legs that were stuck in the clay floor. The planks were long, so my mother, Antek, and I slept next to each other with our heads in the middle of the bed. Ciocia Stefa, Zosia, and Nina slept on the other end of the planks, in the opposite direction, our six heads meeting.
The Russian woman greeted us unsmilingly. “Zdravstvuyte.” Her graying hair was tied with a red scarf. Her large, stout figure and muscular arms showed that she was used to carrying heavy loads. She introduced her daughters in a deep, loud voice: “Svetlana, Katia, Nadia, and Natasha.”
The daughters were all blonde with blue eyes. Svetlana was about 20 years old, tall and slim with a sulky expression. Katia, about 18, was short and plump. She nodded at us and walked away. Nadia was my age, about 10, and the only one who smiled at me. Natasha was 5, close to Antek’s age. She jumped up and down as if ready to play and have some fun.
I didn’t like to wake up in the mornings. I knew there was no food for breakfast. I would keep my eyes closed and imagine warm buns coming out of an oven. I would butter them and spread strawberry jam on them. This thought comforted me, but there was nothing to look forward to when, finally, I had to get out of bed.
My mother and either Zosia or Nina would go out and try to find food to buy. They waited in lines for hours but usually came back empty-handed. The war was on, and all the provisions were for the army and privileged officials. Another problem was that more and more refugees and evacuees were arriving from different parts of Russia. One day Ciocia Stefa and Zosia got temporary jobs packing potatoes and onions into bags and were able to bring home a few rations.
One evening we had only one slice of bread left, which we all shared. At night when we lay in bed head to head with the lights out, my mother suddenly cried out, “What are you doing, Stefa? Why are you poking my eye?”
“I’m sorry! I had a piece of bread that I wanted to give Any.” That’s what she always called my brother. Apparently she had hidden her share of the bread and was trying to stick it into my brother’s mouth. But she missed it and stuck the bread into my mother’s eye instead. We all laughed.
My brother was the only one who was ever invited to share a meal with the Russian family. Natasha liked Antek, and her mother allowed her to share her portion of food with him. Antek told me that they both ate from one wooden bowl with wooden spoons. The soup consisted of hot water with a cabbage leaf, a small carrot, and sometimes potatoes. We were grateful that he could eat with them.
Before long we were in the middle of a very cold winter and still waiting for news about Wujcio Władzio. Every few days Zosia and Nina went to the Polish Committee to try to get some information, but they always returned with no news.
One day my mother took Antek and me with her to walk the streets of Semipalatynsk. On one corner, among the gray, drab-looking buildings, we saw a cart selling pickled green tomatoes packed into glass jars. My mother bought two. On another corner, an ice cream stand attracted our attention. Small rounds of ice cream were wrapped in gray paper. I was overjoyed when my mother bought me one, even though it tasted like cold water—it had no flavor and certainly no sugar. It was white, though, so I suppose it had some milk. It seemed strange to be selling ice cream when the temperatures were well below freezing, but any food was better than none.
By Christmas 1941 the streets of Semipalatynsk were frozen. Snow fell, and when the weather grew a little warmer, the snow melted, and then froze again when it got colder. As this process continued, eventually almost all the ground—the paths and the roads—hardened, turning the city into one large ice rink. People who had skates used them to get wherever they needed to go. Nadia was kind enough to let me borrow hers. We all wore pimy on our feet. The skates were fastened on tightly with strings. One day I was skating joyfully on the street in front of the gray brick house where we lived. Antek stood in the doorway, watching me jealously.
Suddenly someone grabbed my arms from behind my back. A young hooligan was cutting the strings while another held me firmly. I wanted to kick him but was afraid of the knife he was using. I felt powerless.
“Help! Help!” I screamed.
Antek ran for aid. In a minute the attackers were gone with the skates. Nadia and Katia rushed toward me. I was crying in despair and shaking with fear.
Katia was furious and started swearing. “Svoloch, svoloch! Animals, animals!”
Then she turned to Nadia, “Why did you lend your skates? How could you?”
Nadia’s eyes filled with tears.
Then Katia looked at me. “I expect your mother to pay for the skates—do you hear me?”
“Da, da,” I sobbed.
I ran into the house, still crying, and told my mother the whole story. She tried to calm me. “It’s all right, as long as they did not harm you. I’ll find a way to pay Katia.”
She gave her a sweater from Poland instead of money.
On Christmas Eve Ciocia Stefa covered the table with a white sheet, as we had no tablecloth. All we had for dinner was buckwheat soup and boiled potatoes. After we prayed and ate, we sang Christmas carols. Nina had a beautiful voice that carried across the room. She started with “Cicha noc,” and we all joined in.
Suddenly four blonde heads popped into the doorway, watching us in astonishment. Religion was forbidden in Russia; the four girls had been brought up without knowing anything about God. I felt sorry for them, not knowing anything about Christmas, but I knew that I couldn’t talk to them about Jesus being born on this day.
“Pozhaluysta. Come in.” My mother invited them to sit with us and listen to our singing, without trying to explain anything.
They entered shyly and seemed to enjoy our company. When they left they thanked us, broad smiles on their faces.
At the end of February 1942 Zosia rushed in, shouting with excitement, “Good news! Our father is alive and well! He is in the Polish army in Yangi Yul, Uzbekistan, under the command of General Anders. I asked the Polish Committee to send him a letter to let him know where we are.”
We started kissing each other and crying. Our joy that day could not be described in words.
Two weeks later a short letter arrived.
My dearest. I was so happy to hear from you. As soon as possible I will send somebody to Semipalatynsk with papers allowing you to join me here in Yangi Yul, Uzbekistan. Love to you all,
Władzio
The next few weeks dragged by as we waited impatiently for more news. My mother and Ciocia Stefa dried slices of dark bread for the journey.
One day toward the end of March, there was a knock on the door. Nina opened it to reveal a short middle-aged man in a green military uniform that hung loosely on his thin body.
He took off his hat and said, “I am looking for the Balicki family. I am Sergeant Borowski. I come with papers from Captain Doctor Balicki. We must leave as soon as possible or we may miss the transport to Persia that is departing shortly.” (As my uncle’s official title was doctor of law, the polite way to address him was Doctor.)
“What about us?” cried my mother. “I am her sister, and I have two children.”
“I know about you,” Sergeant Borowski replied. “The problem is that I was only able to obtain papers for the immediate family, who will be recruited into the army. You may also join, but your children are underage. I have no permission to take them with me. I’ll come back tomorrow, and we will talk about it.”
After he left, my mother and cousins debated late into the night. I listened until I fell asleep, so I didn’t hear the end of the discussion. The next morning my mother announced, “We have to leave without permits.”
“It�
��s too risky. The police will arrest you,” argued Ciocia Stefa.
When Sergeant Borowski returned later that day, my mother told him her decision. He scratched his head and grew silent. Finally, he spoke. “I have an idea. I will add you and your children to the list. We will write down that your daughter is 25 years old and your son 20. They will have to hide when the police come to check people on the train. God help us if they discover our fraud!”
The next day my mother woke up and reported one of her prophetic dreams. “I had a strange dream,” she said. “Nina, wearing a black dress, walked onto a stage with a black background. She was going to sing. A huge white hand appeared behind her, and a voice whispered, “Zaczekać, zaczekać. Wait, wait.”
“You and your dreams,” laughed Zosia. “Let’s go.”
We gathered our belongings and walked to the station. The pavements were muddy from the thawing snow, and the early spring air was cold and crisp.
All we could do now was pray, and hope for the best.
14
The Trans-Siberian Train Journey
The seven of us—my mother, Antek, Ciocia Stefa, Zosia, Nina, and me, plus Sergeant Borowski, who would inquire about the train schedule and buy our tickets—arrived at the train station in Semipalatynsk to find it crowded with Russians, Kazakhs, and Poles going south. The German army was advancing toward Moscow, so the trains that passed by the station without stopping were full to capacity with refugees and evacuees from other parts of Russia. The possibility of boarding any of them seemed grim.
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