Grandmother told Mama to send for her if she needed help, so Grandmother left, and Mama and I stayed by Papa’s side at all times. Occasionally, Mama would go into the next room and I would hear her crying, but she was trying to put on a good face for me. However, I was aware of how badly Papa was beaten, and how much he must have been suffering. After we were there about ten days, Mama decided that we would be better off if we found a place of our own, so as not to impose on these people any longer.
* * *
MOVING ON • Although they were already in a separate house from the Serenkov family, Anna must have felt their dependence on them was an imposition.
Feodosija decided to return to the Great House in spite of the dangerous journey back to Konstantinowka and the chaos and potential danger of living in the house once she got there. She was intensely dedicated to protecting the house, even at the risk of her own life.
* * *
The next day Mama told me to stay with Papa, that she was going to look for another place for us to move to. She was gone most of the morning. When she returned, she told us she had found a place that would be better for us, and it would be even closer to Grandmother’s house (about three miles closer). The farmer and his wife helped Mama move Papa into the telega, and we walked to our new home.
* * *
“THREE MILES CLOSER” • According to Nonna’s later note, the new house was probably more like eight miles closer to the Great House than where they had been before—only three miles away from it.
* * *
It was a large house with a big foyer and several large rooms, even though it looked more like an office building or a post office than it did a home. Mama got Papa situated in the bed, and we started a fire in the stove to warm up the room. Mama put on a pot of potatoes to cook, along with some of the wheat flour that we had prepared—it seemed to me that she kept those two things cooking at all times. We settled down to try to make Papa as comfortable as possible. Papa was still very calm and talked to Mama and me, telling us not to be bitter at the Germans—that they were doing what they had been told to do.
He kept assuring Mama not to worry, saying, “I am going to be okay. I am strong, and I will be fine, especially since I have you and Nonna here with me.”
Papa was mentally alert, and as usual, he was very calm and almost peaceful as we were trying to take care of him, but you could see that he was getting weaker with the passing of each day. He had developed a cough. He would have coughing spells and would cough up blood, then the coughing would subside.
Amazingly, through the whole ordeal, as horrible as it was for Papa, he had remained the same gentle and kind person he had always been. For him, there was always a reason for any situation (no matter how horrible it was), and he would forgive anyone for what was done to him. At times it would infuriate me the way he would defend the actions of those who had so unjustly hurt him.
“They could not help themselves and did what they did to protect themselves from the unknown,” Papa would say.
To me, it was a simple act of cruelty and sadism. Papa kept emphasizing how important it was for me to keep practicing my German language until I could speak it fluently. Papa had written poems in many languages, and he loved to recite poems in all the languages that he spoke—he spoke eight languages. Even as he lay there so very ill, he kept teaching me how to pronounce some of the words that were difficult for me. He also recited German poems to me, and he was always telling me how important it was to learn more than two languages. (I already spoke four languages—Russian, Ukrainian, Yiddish, and Polish.)
One morning after we woke up, Mama fixed some breakfast and helped Papa into a chair by the table. Papa was quiet and would reach up and put his hand on his forehead. I am sure that he was in pain, but he never complained—not even one time. Mama was trying to get him to eat some food, but he said he wasn’t hungry. As we were sitting there, Papa said, “I would give anything in the world for a piece of bacon and a glass of buttermilk. I can just taste the bacon, and that is all I’m hungry for.”
I got up, put on my coat and hat, and told Mama that I was going to look for some bacon and buttermilk for Papa. I put on my shawl and wrapped up as best I could because it was very cold outside. I set out for the farmer’s house where we had stayed. I saw a few German soldiers, but I walked at a fast pace and made out like I didn’t see them, and they did not say anything to me.
When I arrived at the farmer’s house, I told the lady that Papa was dying and that he wanted some bacon and some buttermilk for his breakfast. The lady said, “No problem, my child,” and she went into the pantry and came out with a large hunk of slab bacon. She then poured a gallon of buttermilk into a jug and put them into the sack I had brought with me. She put in some potatoes and carrots and asked me if we needed any help with Papa. I told her that we were doing okay and that Mama and I were doing all we could for Papa. I thanked her and told her I didn’t have any money to pay her with. She told me not to worry about it, but if I would bring her an umbrella when I came again, she would be very thankful.
I felt so very happy and proud that I had found what Papa had asked for, and my little feet couldn’t carry me fast enough to get me back home. Again, there were German soldiers on the road, but I hid the sack under my shawl and kept moving toward home. When I got home with the little sack, Mama was amazed that I had found the bacon and the buttermilk, and she quickly sliced some of the bacon into bite-size cubes and fried it for Papa. She poured a glass of buttermilk and gave it to Papa as he was sitting at the table. I could see a smile come across his face as the smell of the bacon wafted through the kitchen. When Mama put the bacon on a plate and set it in front of Papa, he smiled and said, “I know that I don’t have to worry about anything when my little girl, Nonna, is here to take care of us.”
As he sat there eating the bacon, he seemed so happy and looked like he was enjoying it so much. Mama and I both had tears in our eyes. Papa was telling Mama and me to eat some of the bacon with him, but though it smelled so good, Mama and I would not eat any of it because we wanted to save it for Papa. After he finished eating, he looked so relaxed. He told us he felt like taking a nap, so Mama and I helped him back to the bed. He was soon asleep, and Mama and I were sitting quietly talking about the situation that we were in and that Papa was not getting any better.
There was a knock, and when I went to answer the door, there was an old man standing there. He said he was a doctor. He had heard we had an injured person there, and he would like to see if he could help out. Mama had come to the door, and she let the man come in and check on Papa.
After he had checked Papa over, he just shook his head and said it was too late to help Papa—it would be only a matter of time before Papa would die. He apologized for not being able to help Papa, but there was no medicine available. But he took five small pills out of his coat pocket and told Mama they would help some with the pain. The old man smelled the bacon and said he was hungry, so Mama asked him to have lunch with us. He then told us that he was helping the German doctors at the field hospital and that he was obligated to get back to work at the hospital.
After the old man left, Papa asked me to go visit the neighbors’ children for a while because he wanted to talk to Mama alone. I reluctantly dressed and went to the neighbors’ house, and visited there for a few hours. In my heart, I knew that Papa and Mama were discussing plans for Mama and me after Papa was gone. Papa was such an intelligent man. His concerns were for Mama and me, and he was worried about what would happen to us after he was gone. When I went home, Papa was lying in the bed, and he seemed to be at peace. Mama was sitting there holding his hand, and she had her arm around his shoulders. My mind went back to Anatoly, and I was wishing he was there with us—I kept hoping he would just appear and be there for us—but it was not to be. We went to bed that night, and I could hear Mama softly crying. After a long time, I drifted off to sleep—not knowing what tomorrow would bring.
27: My Las
t Minutes with Papa
The six weeks that Papa lay there fighting to stay alive seemed like an eternity! I had held on to the hope that I would see my brother, Anatoly, again—but thoughts that were horrifying to me would go through my head at times. I would think that if Anatoly were there, he, too, could be beaten by the German soldiers, and we could lose him as well! Some nights I would just lie there in my bed and imagine all kinds of terrible things (at the age of fourteen, my imagination was quite active, anyway). I was no longer a child, but not yet a woman—however, my thoughts were too mature for my age!
The next morning Mama came to my bed and woke me, saying, “Nonnatchka, I must go now and get Grandmother. It is time, and we need her here with us.”
Then she said in a very calm and quiet voice, “You sit by Papa’s bed. Don’t be frightened, but just don’t leave him alone. He is quiet now, and you don’t need to do anything for him, but just sit there with him until I return.” Somehow, I knew that things did not look very good for Papa, and I did what Mama had instructed me to do—I went to sit with Papa.
It would be at least an hour before Mama would come back, since she had to walk to Grandmother’s house, which was at least four versts away (one verst equals three-quarters of a mile). Mama had moved Papa’s bed into the kitchen because it was the only room in the house that was warm enough for him. A good fire was burning in the stove, and it was nice and warm there. Papa lay very quietly, and I thought he was asleep.
I sat for a long time just watching Papa, when suddenly an incredibly peaceful feeling came over me. It was almost as though I was surrounded by a dozen angels or something. I looked at Papa, and I saw an expression on his face that was not there a few minutes before—he looked as though he smiled. His lips were not moving, but I thought I heard him say, “It is all right now, and I am happy.” I leaned over closer to his face and whispered, “Papa, are you awake?” But there was no motion, and for the first time, I noticed that his chest was not moving. I stood up and slowly started to walk backward without taking my eyes off of Papa until I was out of the kitchen. I felt like I needed some fresh air. I ran outside without my cap or coat, and I started walking around a small tree in the deep snow. I kept going in circles, and I kept chanting, “Papa is happy! Papa is happy!” My little body was freezing, but I didn’t want to go inside the house.
What finally snapped me out of my shock was the sound of a motorcycle coming through the gate. There were two German soldiers on it; they jumped off the motorcycle and ran to the front door. They kicked the door open and ran inside the house. I followed them because I didn’t want Papa to be alone with them, and one of them started to shout, “Kartoffeln, Kartoffeln und Brot!” (“Potatoes, potatoes and bread—where do you keep it?”)
Before I could say anything, they started to turn everything upside down and were running from one room to another, turning the mattresses and the furniture over. I just stood there terrified—not knowing what to say or what to do. When they got to the kitchen and saw Papa there, they stopped short and looked very startled. They had the look on their faces of wild animals that were ready to attack their prey.
Filled with horror, I cried, “Er ist mein Vater, und er ist tot!” (“He is my father, and he is dead!”) At that time, I saw one of the soldiers going for his knife and yelling, “It is a Russian trick to play dead! Let’s see how dead he is!”
Like a bolt of lightning a horrible thought hit me: What if Papa was not yet dead and was just unconscious? I started to pray out loud, “Please, God, let Papa be dead!” Swiftly, the German soldier pulled his knife out of its holster and plunged it into Papa’s chest. The other soldier grabbed him by his arm and pulled him away from Papa, yelling, “Let’s go. She is telling the truth—he is dead!”
They stormed out of the kitchen, pushing me against the wall. Bewildered and in shock, I stood there against that wall shaking violently until my knees gave out and I slid down the wall. I stayed that way—just shaking—I could not move nor cry. Then I saw black boots before me, and I looked up—one of the soldiers had come back. He stared at me for a minute or so and said, “You speak German very well; where is the rest of your family?”
Thinking that he had come back to kill someone, I was hoping that Mama and Grandmother would not come home just then. I said very quickly, “They are all dead!”
He walked back into the kitchen and came back out carrying a pot of potatoes that Mama had cooked the night before—he must have spotted the pot when they were in the kitchen.
He looked at me, and I thought that he looked kind of sad. I almost felt sorry for him! He said, “I am sorry, but we are very hungry and very cold.” With this, he took off, and I remained on my knees absolutely terrified and unable to move.
When Mama and Grandmother finally walked in, I started to cry uncontrollably! Grandmother put her shawl around me, and the three of us stood there for a long time, just sobbing.
* * *
IN MEMORY OF PAPA • “Papa’s love, affection, and protection stayed with me until I lost him,” Nonna wrote in her transcripts. “I was at his bedside when he died. I could not believe that it was really happening. Papa taught me many things during my first fourteen years of life, but he never knew what the war and the Holocaust would bring on all of us. I thank God for those years that I had with my loving father, and I thank Papa for all that he taught me.”
At this point in her transcript, Nonna included one of her father’s favorite sayings, along with a poem she wrote to him after his death.
* * *
“There was no shame in those who had committed an execution where there had been no crime!”
TO PAPA
With tears in your eyes, you’ve softly spoken,
“We shall remain and take a chance.
Though others had been treated roughly,
We’ll beg—to give us some defense!”
Now was our chance to cross the borders,
And with a smile so sweet, you’d say,
“We must believe and look for rainbows—
The freedom was just miles away.”
But when the troops arrived so swiftly,
There was no time to talk—just hide.
You’ve waited days in the cellar (sickly),
Then the Germans found you inside.
You tried to tell them, give them the reason;
They were too drunk to understand—
For them it was a hunting season,
Of those still in the land!
With terror in my heart I’ve cried,
“Er ist mein Vater, und er ist tot!”
But faces froze and filled with spite,
Of those without respect for God.
There were no lilies on your coffin;
Your hands were folded on your chest.
I could not cry, but stood there hoping
Your soul was free and you could rest.
They tortured you while you were living,
And pierced your heart when you lay dead.
You’ve taught me how to be forgiving,
Please tell me how to forget!
28: Papa’s Burial
We were grief stricken, and so alone, and so helpless! However, there were some arrangements that had to be made, and Papa had to be buried. While Mama and I had to find someone to build a coffin for Papa, Grandmother went back to her house to look for help from her neighbors there.
Mama and I walked around for hours asking people if there was anyone who could help us. Finally, we came to a place where there was a lumber storage, and we heard some nailing going on inside. There were three older men building something. Mama asked them if they could make a coffin for Papa, and with a compassionate look in their aged eyes, they agreed to do it. They told us to come back in three hours, and they would have the coffin ready by then. When we came back and I saw the coffin they had built, I could not imagine Papa being buried in it—it was so plain, and not even painted. The old men apologized to us for n
ot having any paint, but we knew that they had done the best they could do under the circumstances. We were grateful for what they had done. They would not even allow us to pay them for their work on the coffin—money did not mean anything to anyone then, anyway. They wanted to know how Mama and I would manage to get the coffin to our house, since it was at least one and a half miles away. There was no way to get it back home except for Mama and me to carry it.
When we made it back to the house with the coffin, Grandmother was there with several men and women whom she had gathered from around her neighborhood. I wanted to just disappear and not be there for the rest of it—so I went back to my room and closed the door behind me. I don’t know how long I remained in my room with my face covered with a pillow. I lay there on my bed, filled with grief and anger, and I didn’t know whom I was angry with the most—the Russians, the Germans, the war itself, or the whole world that we were living in. I could feel myself clenching my teeth until my jaws hurt. I could no longer cry—my eyes were dry, and no matter how hard I tried to cry, I just could not cry. I felt as though I were slowly being crushed by the heavy air and the atmosphere around me.
Then I heard the wailing of the women coming from the parlor where Papa’s coffin was placed. It was a custom that the Russians and the Ukrainians practiced before burying the dead. It was as gruesome a sound as anyone could ever hear. I could no longer stand the sound that they were making and stuck my fingers in both my ears. I ran out of my room, passing the parlor, and into the yard. The cold air felt good to me, and I took a handful of snow and rubbed it all over my face until it burned and hurt.
The Secret Holocaust Diaries Page 12