He also loved to read poetry with me, especially Pushkin:
Study, my son: for learning shortens
The lessons of our swift-passing life.*1
That June day…In my pretty dress I was going with a friend to the garden of the House of the Red Army to see a play that was supposed to start at noon. We saw everybody listening to a loudspeaker fastened to a pole. Bewildered faces.
“You hear—it’s war!” my friend said.
I rushed home. Flung the door open. The apartment was quiet, mama wasn’t there, my father was shaving with concentration in front of the mirror, one cheek covered with lather.
“Papa, it’s war!”
Papa turned to me and went on shaving. I saw an unfamiliar expression in his eyes. I remember that the speaker on the wall was switched off. That’s all he could do to postpone for us the moment of the terrible news.
Life changed instantly…I don’t remember my father being at home at all during those days. Everyday life became different. We held general meetings of the tenants: how to extinguish a fire if the house started burning, how to cover the windows for the night—the city had to be without lights. Provisions disappeared from the counters, ration cards appeared.
And then came that last evening. It wasn’t at all like those I see now in the movies: tears, embraces, jumping onto moving trains. We didn’t have that. Everything was as if my father was leaving on maneuvers. My mother folded his belongings, his collar, his tabs were already sewn on, she checked his buttons, socks, handkerchiefs. My father rolled up his greatcoat—I think I was holding it.
The three of us went out to the corridor. It was late. At that hour all the doors were locked except the front one—to go out to the courtyard, we had to go up from the first floor to the second, pass through a long corridor and go back down. It was dark outside, and our always thoughtful father said,“There’s no need to accompany me any farther.”
He embraced us. “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry, girls.”
And he left.
He sent us several letters from the front: “We’ll soon be victorious, then we’ll live differently. How is our Ludmilochka behaving?” I can’t remember what I did till the first of September. Of course, I upset my mother by staying at my girlfriends’ for a long time without permission. Air-raid warnings became, one might say, a usual thing. Everyone quickly got used to them: we didn’t go down into the shelter, but stayed at home. Many times I was caught under bombings in the streets downtown. I would just run into a store or into an entryway.
There were many rumors, but they didn’t stay in my memory. In my child’s mind…
My mother was on duty at the hospital. Every day trains arrived with wounded soldiers.
Surprisingly, goods appeared again on the counters, and people bought them. For several days, my mother and I wondered: shouldn’t we buy a new piano? We decided not to for the time being, but to wait for my father. It’s a major purchase, after all.
Incredible as it seems, we went back to school, as usual, on the first of September. Not a word from my father all through August. We had faith, and waited, though we already knew such words as encirclement and partisans. At the end of the month, they announced: Be prepared for evacuation at any moment. We were informed of the exact day, I think, the day before. The mothers had a hard time. Anyway, we were convinced that we would leave for a couple of months, sit it out somewhere in Saratov, and come back. One bundle for the bed things, one bundle for the dishes, and a suitcase with our clothes. We were ready.
I remember this picture on the way: our train leaves without a signal, people grab their pans, there’s no time to put out the cook fires. We get on the train and go, and there is a chain of fires along the embankment. The train arrived in Alma-Ata, then went back to Chimkent. And so several times—there and back. Finally, with sluggish oxen harnessed to carts, we rode into the aul. I saw a kibitka for the first time…*2 Like in an eastern fairy tale…Everything was so colorful, unusual. I found it interesting.
But when I noticed my mother’s first gray hair, I was dumbstruck. I began to grow up very quickly. Mama’s hands! I don’t know what they couldn’t do. How did mama have the presence of mind at the last moment to grab the sewing machine (without the case, putting it with the pillows) and toss it into the car going to the train? That sewing machine was our breadwinner. Mama managed to sew at night. Did she ever sleep?
On the horizon were the snowy spurs of the Tien Shan mountains. In spring the steppe is red with tulips, and in the fall there are grape clusters, melons. But how could we buy them? And the war! We were looking for our dear papa! Over three years, we wrote three dozen requests: to army headquarters, field post office 116, to the defense commissariat, to the Head Office of Red Army Personnel in Buguruslan…They all sent the same answer: “Not listed among the wounded or the dead.” Since he wasn’t listed, we waited and waited, still hoping.
Good news began to come over the radio. Our troops were liberating one city after another. Now Orsha was liberated. That’s my mother’s birthplace. My grandmother was there, and my mother’s sisters. Voronezh was liberated, too…But Voronezh without papa was foreign to us. We wrote to my grandmother and went to her place. We traveled all the way on the rear platform, it was impossible to get inside. Five days on the platform…
My favorite place in my grandmother’s house was by the warm Russian stove. At school we sat with our coats on. Many girls had coats sewn out of army greatcoats, and the boys simply wore the greatcoats. Early in the morning, I heard from the loudspeaker: victory! I was fifteen years old…I put on my father’s present from before the war—a worsted cardigan—and my brand-new high-heeled shoes, and went to school. We kept these things, we had bought them in bigger sizes, so there was room to grow, and now I had grown.
In the evening we sat at the table, and on the table was a photo of my papa and a battered volume of Pushkin…It was his wedding gift to my mother. I remember how papa and I read poetry together, and when there was something he especially liked, he said, “The wide world is wondrous…” He always repeated those words in good moments.
I can’t imagine such a beloved papa not alive…
*1 The lines are from the tenth scene of Pushkin’s play Boris Godunov (1825), spoken by Boris Godunov to his son Feodor.
*2 In the Russian far east, a kibitka is a round tent of lattice work covered with felt, sometimes mounted on wheels. In European Russia, a kibitka is a large covered wagon.
“THEY BROUGHT LONG, THIN CANDY…IT LOOKED LIKE PENCILS…”
Leonida Belaya
THREE YEARS OLD. NOW A CLOTHES PRESSER.
Does a three-year-old child remember anything? I’ll tell you…
I remember three or four images very clearly.
…Behind the house, by the meadow, some men were doing exercises, swimming in the river. Splashing, shouting, laughing, chasing each other, like our village boys. Only mama allowed me to play with the boys, but here she was scared and shouted that I mustn’t leave the cottage. When I asked, “Who are those men?” she answered in a frightened voice, “Germans.” Other kids ran to the river and brought back long, thin candy…They offered me some…
During the day, those same men marched along our streets. They shot all the dogs that barked at them.
After that, my mother forbade me to show myself outside during the day. I sat at home all day with my cat.
…We’re running somewhere…The dew is cold. My grandmother’s skirt is wet up to the waist, and my whole dress is wet, and so is my head. We hide in the forest. I dry off in my grandmother’s jacket, while my dress is drying. One of our neighbors climbs a tree. I hear: “Burning…burning…burning…” Just that one word…
…We return to the village. In place of our cottages—black cinders. Where our neighbors lived, we find a comb. I
recognize that comb. The neighbors’ daughter—her name was Anyuta—used to comb my hair with it. My mama can’t answer me when I ask where she and her mama are and why they don’t come back. My mama clutches her heart. And I remember how Anyuta used to bring long, thin candy from those men who were merrily bathing in the river. Long as pencils…Very tasty. We didn’t have candy like that…She was pretty, she always got a lot of candy. More than anyone. At night we would put our feet in the ashes to get warm and fall asleep. Warm, soft ashes…
“THE LITTLE TRUNK WAS JUST HIS SIZE…”
Dunya Golubeva
ELEVEN YEARS OLD. NOW A MILKER.
War…But we still had to plow…
Mama, my sister and brother went to the fields to sow linseed. They drove off, and an hour later, not more, women came running: “Your people have been shot, Dunya. They’re lying in the field…”
My mother lay on a sack, and the grain was pouring out of it. There were many, many little bullet holes…
I remained alone with my little nephew. My sister had recently given birth, but her husband was with the partisans. It was me and this little boy…
I didn’t know how to milk the cow. She was bellowing in the stable, she sensed that her mistress was gone. The dog howled all night long. So did the cow…
The baby clung to me…He wanted my breast…Milk…I remembered how my sister fed him…I pulled out my nipple for him, he sucked and sucked and fell asleep. I had no milk, but he got tired and fell asleep. Where did he catch cold? How did he get sick? I was little, what did I know? He coughed and coughed. We had nothing to eat. The polizei had already taken away the cow.
And so the little boy died. Moaned and moaned and died. I heard it grow quiet. I lifted the little sheet. He lay there all black, only his little face was white, it remained clean. A white little face, the rest completely black.
Night. Dark windows. Where to go? I’ll wait till morning, in the morning I’ll call people. I sat and wept, because there was no one in the house, not even that little boy. Day was breaking. I put him in a trunk…We had kept our grandfather’s trunk, where he stored his tools; a small trunk, like a box. I was afraid that cats or rats would come and gnaw at him. He lay there, so small, smaller than when he was alive. I wrapped him in a clean towel. A linen one. And kissed him.
The little trunk was just his size…
“I WAS AFRAID OF THAT DREAM…”
Lena Starovoitova
FIVE YEARS OLD. NOW A PLASTERER.
All I have left is a dream…One dream…Mama put on her green coat, her boots, wrapped my six-month-old sister in a warm blanket, and left. I sat by the window and waited for her to come back. Suddenly I saw a few people being led down the road, and among them my mama and my little sister. Near our house, mama turned her head and looked through the window. I don’t know whether she saw me or not. A fascist hit her with the butt of his rifle…He hit her so hard that she doubled over…
In the evening, my aunt came, my mother’s sister…She cried a lot, she tore her hair, and called me “little orphan, little orphan.” I heard that word for the first time…
That night I dreamed that mama was stoking the stove, the fire was burning brightly, and my little sister was crying. Mama called to me…But I was somewhere far away and didn’t hear. I woke up in fear: mama called to me and I didn’t answer. Mama wept in my dream…I couldn’t forgive myself that she was weeping. I dreamed that dream for a long time…Always the same. I wanted…and was afraid of that dream…
I don’t even have a photograph of mama. Only that dream…There’s nowhere else I can see mama now…
“I WANTED TO BE MAMA’S ONLY CHILD…SO SHE COULD PAMPER ME…”
Maria Puzan
SEVEN YEARS OLD. NOW A WORKER.
Forgive me, but when I remember this…I can’t…I…I can’t look another person in the eyes…
They drove the kolkhoz cows out of the barn and pushed people inside. Our mama, too. I sat in the bushes with my little brother, he was two years old, he didn’t cry. And the dog sat there with us.
In the morning we came home, the house was there, but mama wasn’t. There was nobody. We were alone. I went to fetch water. I had to stoke the oven, my little brother was asking to eat. Our neighbors were hanging from the well pole. I turned to the other end of the village, there was an artesian well there, with the best water. The tastiest. There were people hanging there, too. I came home with empty buckets. My little brother cried, because he was hungry. “Give me some bread. Give me a crust.” One time I bit him so he wouldn’t cry.
We lived like that for a few days. Alone in the village. People lay or hung dead. We weren’t afraid of the dead, they were all people we knew. Later we met a woman we didn’t know. We started crying, “Let us live with you. We’re afraid alone.” She sat us on her sledge and drove us to her village. She had two boys and the two of us. We lived like that until our soldiers came.
…At the orphanage, they gave me an orange dress with pockets. I loved it so much that I told everyone, “If I die, bury me in this dress.” Mama died, papa died, and I would die soon. For a long time I waited to die. I always cried when I heard the word mama. Once they scolded me for some reason and stood me in a corner. I ran away from the orphanage. I ran away several times to go and look for mama.
I didn’t remember my birthday…They told me: Choose your favorite day, any one you want. Well, any one you like. And I liked the May holidays. “But,” I thought, “nobody will believe me if I say I was born on the first of May, or on the second, but if I say the third of May, it will seem like the truth.” Every three months they gathered the children who had had birthdays; they set a festive table with candy and tea, and gave them presents: girls got fabric for their dresses, boys got shirts. Once an unknown old man came to the orphanage and brought a lot of boiled eggs, gave them out to everybody, and was so happy to do something nice for us. It was right on my birthday…
I was already a big girl, but I was bored without toys. When we went to bed and everybody fell asleep, I pulled feathers from my pillow and examined them. It was my favorite game. If I was sick, I lay and dreamed of mama. I wanted to be mama’s only child…so she could pamper me.
I was a long time growing up…Everybody in the orphanage had trouble growing up. I think it’s probably from pining. We didn’t grow up because we heard so few tender words. We couldn’t grow up without mamas…
“BUT, LIKE RUBBER BALLS, THEY DIDN’T SINK…”
Valya Yurkevich
SEVEN YEARS OLD. NOW RETIRED.
Mama was hoping for a boy…And my father wanted a boy. But a girl was born…
Yet they all wanted a boy so much…So I grew up more like a boy than a girl. My parents dressed me in boys’ clothing and cut my hair like a boy’s. I liked boys’ games: “Cops and Robbers,” “War,” “Mumblety-peg.” I especially liked to play “War.” I believed I was brave.
Near Smolensk our train carriage with the evacuated was completely destroyed by bombing. We somehow survived, and we were pulled out from under the rubble. We reached a village, and there a battle had started. We sat in someone’s basement. The house collapsed, and we were buried under it. The battle subsided, and we somehow crawled out of the basement, and the first thing I remember is the cars. Passenger cars drove by, and in them sat smiling people wearing shiny black raincoats. I can’t express that feeling—there was fear, and some kind of morbid curiosity. They drove through the village and disappeared. We children went to see what was happening outside the village. When we went out to the fields, it was something terrible. The entire rye field was strewn with dead bodies. I guess I didn’t have a girlish character, because I wasn’t afraid to look at all this, though I was seeing it for the first time. They lay in black soot. There were so many it was hard to believe these were people lying there. That was my first impression of the war…our
blackened soldiers…
We went back to Vitebsk with my mother. Our house was destroyed, but our grandmother was waiting for us…A Jewish family sheltered us, a very sick and very kind old couple. We always worried about them, because all across the city hung announcements saying that Jews had to register at the ghetto; we asked them not to leave the house. One day we were away…My sister and I were playing somewhere. My mother was out, and my grandmother…When we returned, we found a note saying that the owners had left for the ghetto, because they were afraid for us; we had to live, but they were old. Orders were posted across the city: Russians must hand over the Jews to the ghetto, if they knew where they were hiding. Otherwise they, too, would be shot.
We read the note, and my sister and I ran to the Dvina. There was no bridge at that spot, people were transported to the ghetto by boat. The bank was encircled by Germans. Before our eyes, they loaded the boats with old people, children, towed them to the middle of the river, and overturned them. We searched for our old ones; they weren’t there. We saw a family sitting in a boat—a man, his wife, and two children. When the boat was overturned, the adults immediately sank to the bottom, but the children kept resurfacing. The fascists hit them with their paddles, laughing. They hit them here, they would resurface somewhere else; they would catch up with them and hit them again. But, like rubber balls, they didn’t sink…
Last Witnesses Page 19