Dancing Under the Red Star (16 page)

Because nothing was mechanized, potato harvesting was very hard work. Stooping, lifting, carrying, Mama managed to earn four sacks of potatoes; she filled a total of sixteen sacks. When she finished, however, she could bring only one sack home with her at a time. It was a six-mile walk, and she had to strap one sack of potatoes to her back and leave the other three sacks at the farm. She was frustrated that she could manage only one sack and worried that the others would be stolen before she could return for them. But Mama prayed—even for those sacks of potatoes—that they would not be found until she returned to get them.

Depending on who you were, in Russia a sack of potatoes could mean life or death. Those potatoes meant the world to us! We tried to find a way to transport the three remaining sacks, which were hidden in an old storage shed under some farming supplies. We found no one willing or able to help us bring them back. Before we could return for them, the full brunt of Russian winter struck, and all of our hidden potatoes froze solid. They were still untouched, however—according to Mama’s prayers—in the place she had hidden them.

During the next month, Mama made three trips back there, all alone, braving the deadly cold Soviet winter, to claim her hidden treasures. She dragged a sled across the wide and frozen Oka River. With her hands and feet void of all sensation, she was nearly frostbitten on those journeys. But her heart warmed to find that her frozen potatoes, by God’s providence, were still where she had hidden them. Then, at the same frigid snail’s pace, numbed to the bone, she returned home—one agonizing trip and sack at a time.

Her return trips were doubly treacherous, because she had to drag the sled loaded with frozen potatoes. Entering our room from those trips in that insane cold, suffering from the loss of muscular control, she would have fallen across the doorway and onto the floor if I hadn’t helped her. Each time she would rest for a few minutes and then begin preparing our potato feast for two. (We always wished it was dinner for three, as we were ever aware of someone missing from our evening table.) Mama didn’t complain about those journeys; she just continued as if everything were normal. And I didn’t complain either, because I was so happy to see her return safely. I never told her, but every time she went after those precious potatoes, I also prayed.

The flavor of those potatoes could be described only two ways: bad and worse. The two of us cooked them in every way imaginable, but nothing disguised their horrid taste. Improvisation and creativity didn’t matter. They were always the same; they were always horrible! But Mama would smile and say, “Maidie, they might not taste worth a plug nickel, but now we have more potatoes to eat! And don’t forget to thank God for all he has provided.”

Mama and I sometimes told potato jokes to each other, just to take the edge off, and then we’d laugh. It made it easier to face those hideous things. They were just too bad to be taken seriously.

“Tonight I’m going to make you the best potatoes you’ve ever had in your life,” Mama would announce.

I’d look at her and answer, “Right, Mama, I know!” and then we’d both laugh uncontrollably.

“And tomorrow, Maidie, what if I made you some mashed potatoes? Or would you like them fried instead?”

I’d answer, “No, Mama, but let’s make a big pot to send to Stalin! He will surely appreciate them!”

No matter what we did to them, those nasty potatoes caused a painful throat irritation that wouldn’t go away for days. But since we had little else, we ate more potatoes and laughed at more potato jokes. We never seemed to run out of them. But horrible as they were, I think they saved our lives. I’ll never forget them, ever!

During the war, food became supremely important. We never threw out even the smallest speck of food, no matter what it was or how bad it was. We treasured every bite. We didn’t peel the potatoes, carrots, or any other vegetables we could get our hands on; we ate every bit as is. We couldn’t afford to lose even the smallest morsel of food, so we ate every breadcrumb that fell on or off the table.

We ate things we’d never considered to be food. A friend of ours worked in the factory’s chemical lab, and occasionally he smuggled out glycerin. When we added that to our supply of cranberries, we produced a crude form of jelly. The taste was tolerable, but the stuff caused intestinal problems. Castor oil, purchased at the drugstore, was used to lightly coat a frying pan. We made omelets from an egg powder, which the store routinely issued as a meat substitute. We ate these things in desperation. The harsh reality was that we were both starving, but we were still obliged to work very hard at our jobs, seven days a week, without vacations or holidays, while our city was increasingly targeted by German bombings.

Not everyone survived these conditions; we saw neighbors and friends dying. At first I thought my increasing stomach pains were from tension, but finally I saw a doctor and was diagnosed with severe stomach ulcers. The doctor could do nothing other than prescribe a mild diet with plenty of milk and plenty of rest. The irony didn’t escape any of us. But I was issued a meal card that allowed me to get one meal a day at the factory’s dietary dining room. There I was able to eat some meat, and I received a half loaf of white bread with sweetened condensed milk. I dug a hole in the loaf and poured the milk inside, then wrapped it inside my coat so I could take it back to Mama. Like me, Mama craved sweets, and the condensed milk was as close as we could get.

“But, Maidie, this is for you. You must eat. You need your strength! I can do without it,” was her usual response, although she too was thin and weak.

And as we struggled to survive, we also struggled to hope. Where, oh, where on earth was my dear papa? Was he still alive?

Around this time a stranger came to see us, saying he had just been released from the brutal labor camp in Krasnoyarsk, in Siberia. Mama and I already knew something of the dreaded camp. Krasnoyarsk was commonly known as the place where men went to die. But this man had survived, he said, and now had a job outside the camp. He told us, “I knew your father…and your husband, Mrs. Werner. I knew Carl well. He was…er, um, I mean…he
is
a fine man. I liked him very much. All he ever spoke about was his wife and his daughter, and now I have met them. He works at chopping trees in the forests.”

I was beside myself with excitement. “Well, when did you see him? How does he look? And did he say anything else? Tell me…tell me, please,” I urged him, unable to get my questions out fast enough.

The man just smiled at us very kindly, reassured us that he indeed knew my father, and added, “I’m going back to Krasnoyarsk in a couple of days. I would be happy to take him anything you would like to send.”

We wanted very much to believe this guy, but there was something about him that didn’t seem quite right. Something was disingenuous about him. His mannerisms seemed too polished for someone who had recently been released from such a villainous labor camp. He seemed too clean and maybe too sane to have just returned from the ill-famed Krasnoyarsk. I suspected he was a con man who didn’t know my father at all. Or perhaps he’d actually been there with Papa, but maybe my father was dead by now, and this man wanted to take advantage of Papa’s family. That was a distinct possibility; we knew such things had happened to people. Maybe we should ignore his cunning request.

But Mama didn’t want to chance it. And deep down, neither did I.

Accepting the stranger’s report, we packed all my father’s warm clothing, his leather boots, sheepskin jacket, sweaters, socks, and underwear. We even gave the man some money for his trip back. Of course there was no way we could be sure these items were ever delivered to Papa. Con men often appeared out of nowhere, taking advantage of bereaved families as opportunities arose. It was a way of life for some, getting one over on good-natured and honest people when their guard was down. But as for Mama and me, even if this was just another human vulture with a smooth, silver-tongued delivery, we
had
to believe him! If faith is, in fact, “being sure of what we hope for,” then we certainly had faith.

That first year of the war was by far the most difficult. The civilian population was caught by surprise, unprepared to endure the hardships. By the second year, however, Gorky was better equipped; many of us had planted gardens, which provided us with fresh vegetables and potatoes—the edible kind. This produce was especially important because rarely did we get the rations we were promised. Food rations quickly became black-market items, too costly for our meager earnings. Nothing was available in the stores, aside from leaden bread, baked with frozen potatoes mixed with flour. If we wanted the bread, we had to wait in line for hours. It tasted horrible, but it provided some nutrition.

Starving people are desperate. In Russia we did what we had to do in order to endure. We traded whatever we had—clothes, fabrics, curtains, pots and pans—on the black market for food that was brought into the city by peasants working on the collective farms. We knew others who traded much more than their belongings. Multitudes of women sold themselves in order to survive. They wandered the streets of the main city and would stand in front of the factory, especially on paydays, looking for prospects. Many women felt this choice was necessary; many of them were keeping their families alive. Still, I knew in my heart that prostitution was out of the question; Mama and I were prepared to accept death as the alternative.

Both of us donated blood about once a month just to get the hot meal that was served to the donors on those days and the much-coveted worker’s class-ration card, issued to a fortunate few. Mama donated four pints of blood, and I donated eight, until we both began to suffer from severe anemia. Eventually we were both turned down from donating more.

Our building no longer had central heating, because a bomb had destroyed the city’s power station, but we were able to keep our room relatively warm. We had acquired a small tin stove, about one foot in diameter, which we stationed in the middle of the room. This stove, a small but treasured gift, doubled as our cooking unit, burning wood, coal, or peat as fuel. But in the middle of this brutal winter, it was nearly impossible to find something to burn. We routinely risked our lives to steal bits of wooden fences in the middle of the night or to swipe some coal and peat from the coal yard, which was usually under armed guard. Had we been caught trying to preserve our lives this way, we would have been executed.

One night I was returning to our apartment. As always, I was looking for any kind of fuel. In the almost total darkness of the street, I noticed some scraps of wood. Very discreetly, I placed three or four small pieces in the inner part of my coat lining, completely hidden from view. I knew it was safe, because there were no lights, no one was around, and I was only a hundred yards from our apartment. I would be safely inside in no time at all. Walking down the street toward my building, with my wood secretly tucked inside my coat, I heard a shout from behind.

“Lady! Stop in your tracks and do not move!”

I stopped immediately, paralyzed with fear.

“Now turn around slowly and walk toward me.” About thirty yards away, a military guard approached me with his revolver drawn.

I was fully aware of my surroundings; there was no one else in sight. I had absolutely no idea where this guard could have come from. Like the devil, he simply appeared out of nowhere.
Surely this is it!
My mind raced. I already knew what the penalty would be. I was even too scared to pray.

I was most afraid of looking the guard in the face. I was sure he’d see or smell the fear I was radiating. All I could do was hope that God would blind him or render him stupid so he wouldn’t know what I’d done.

I stood frozen, thinking,
Should I confess my crime and appeal to his sense of mercy? Or should I make a break for it and see if I can outrun him?
Those were my two options. Running didn’t make any sense; he had a gun. So I just stood there like a puppet, in shock, ready to accept my penalty.

The cold black steel barrel of his revolver stared right at my nose. He spoke harshly, “Your name, citizen? And what are you doing here?” I figured he would search me.

“My naaame…,” I began to reply. Then suddenly a voice rang out in the distance, calling him as if there was an emergency.

I was stunned. I saw no one else there. I heard the voice call the guard, but I couldn’t detect where the voice came from. The guard, the one I thought would surely seal my fate, turned away as I was in midsentence, and he went crashing off into the icy Gorky night. It was as if he had forgotten me, as if I were no longer there. Was it the voice of a friend I could not see? Was it an angel assigned to watch over me? Did God answer my unspoken prayer?

What I know is that only moments earlier no one else had been there, as far as the eye could see in any direction. Then the guard appeared out of nowhere to confront me, and then, beyond explanation, he was gone. I couldn’t deny what had just happened. I stood there for another minute, looking up in utter astonishment at the dark, silent heavens.