Sliding on the Snow Stone (9 page)

If we thought times were hard under the Soviets then we were fools to think Nazi rule would be any better. They were an army on the march and wherever they went they took what they needed. They didn’t care about anyone else.

Our village was on the outskirts of Vinnitsya, and we had suitable sites in the surrounding area with potential for factory buildings, and so we had ended up with quite a number of industrial premises, similar to the nail factory where Father worked. Over a number of years, despite Soviet rule, the factories had provided paid work for the local population. A level of prosperity had flowed from these factories. The Nazis took them all over. This meant there was no work for the majority of the men in the village. We were all thrown back into yet another struggle to feed ourselves.

Winter began to draw closer. The blackness of the night lowered itself onto us like a big trapdoor over our heads. The Nazis had us in their grip. They squeezed every ounce of life out of us. They were all around us. It was like being trapped in a tomb.

As during the time of the famine, we eked out an existence through our cow’s produce, and with bread, potatoes and other vegetables. When Christmas came we had a small celebration. We prayed for peace. We just wanted to be left alone to live our lives. When the New Year came I hoped it would bring change and defeat for the Nazis. I dreamt of a free Ukraine. Then we received a proclamation. Work was available! The Nazis delivered a series of announcements. Men of working age were required in Germany. They would provide transport across the border and there would be plentiful work and improved conditions. This is what they said.

Many signed up and made the journey. Others chose to stay at home. It was a difficult decision. Whether to stay at home and survive on starvation rations or to seek out a better life. Those who signed up were transported across the land to various parts of Germany. It didn’t take long before word came back to us. The conditions in Germany were atrocious. It was slave labour. There was no pay and the food was terrible. There were some reports that our people were fed with cabbages that were infested with worms. When this was pointed out to the Germans they just laughed and said it was extra meat. That was what we heard anyhow. It didn’t take long for the Nazis to step right into Soviet boots, and treat us like dirt.

Meanwhile, in the background, we had the Resistance. We also had Russian Partisans operating in the area. Both of these factions opposed the Germans and fought a guerrilla war. Sabotage was one of their weapons. They’d disable the Nazi trucks by slashing tyres. They’d steal whatever equipment they could, they firebombed sentry outposts, and they’d position big rocks along the roads in the early hours of the morning to create a hazard for the Nazi truck drivers.

This was all very well, but it had its consequences. Every time such an incident occurred we knew about it all right. Wulf and his men would speed into the village in their armoured trucks, usually around midday when the local bazaar was at its busiest in the village square. They’d round up all the men they could find there. Then they’d pull out a few of them. Maybe about ten, or twenty. It was like the Soviet purges all over again. Except this time we were left with no doubt that these men were to be executed for the latest actions of the Partisans or Resistance.

‘
Achtung
!* Yet again, our glorious German army has been sabotaged by the insurgents among you! We don’t know which of you have done this, but we must take action to stamp this out! Line up for the execution squad!’ Wulf slapped a baton into his gloved fist as he spoke. The men lined up. Wulf walked along the line and made his selection. His infantrymen pulled out the poor unfortunates and they were bundled into the back of a covered wagon, never to be seen again.

It was worse than the Soviet regime in some respects, because we were in a war zone. No one knew what would happen from one day to the next. At least under the Soviets we had some relative periods of stability.

One dark evening in the early weeks of the New Year, in the year of 1942, we were all sat down having dinner when we heard the growl of an engine and the squeal of brakes on our yard. We all looked around, and Father stood up. We heard rapid footsteps and then there was a fierce banging at the door. The door flew open. It was Wulf and his henchmen. He brought the icy winter wind in with him, and through the open door I could see the snow coming down. We’d been sitting in our kitchen with the fire from the stove throwing out its heat. We’d been cocooned together, snug in our family home, until Wulf arrived to break the spell, ‘
Achtung
! I have received orders from Central Command. The German war effort is placing an enormous burden on our people. We need more Ostarbeiters*. We need more of you back in the Fatherland to work in our factories to support the war effort. You must realise that to keep the Bolsheviks at bay we must all pull together.’

Mother rose up out of her chair and moved towards Wulf, with her hands clasped together, ‘Please, please! I beg of you! Don’t take anyone from this house. We’re a small family. We don’t cause any trouble to anyone. Please Sir, just leave us alone!’

Wulf ignored her and stared hard at Father who responded by gathering Mother in his arms and placing her back down on her chair where she sat bent over with her face in her hands, quietly sobbing.

‘
Well, what’s it to be?’ said Wulf, his arms folded across his chest.

‘
Look,’ replied Father, ‘take me if you have to take anyone, but let these boys stay. They’re too young . . .’

‘
Pah! Too young?’ interrupted Wulf, ‘When I was their age I was marching with the Hitler Youth. I took part in our youth camps, where we were treated just like men. We were given heavy work to do. But it made us stronger. So, tell me, how old are your boys?’ Without hesitation, and with no expression on his face, Father replied,

‘
My eldest son is fifteen, and the little one is still only thirteen.’

Wulf’s eyes narrowed. There was a moment’s silence as he surveyed us all in front of him, ‘Very well, we’ll leave the young one here with you. For now. But the older one must come with us. Right now.’

‘
Please, Sir, please. I’m begging you. Take me. He’s only a boy.’ Father placed his palms on his chest as he spoke, offering himself.

‘
No. You are needed here. To run this smallholding. To provide food for our soldiers. So, young man. Get your hat and coat and put your boots on. You’re coming with us.’

Mother looked up. She, Father and I watched in silence as Volodimir was dragged up out of his chair by two of the soldiers. He resisted a little but soon acquiesced when a third soldier stepped in front of him and pointed his rifle at him. The next two minutes passed by as if we were watching through a fog. We were helpless. Volodimir pulled on his coat and fastened his boots. Before he was led away he turned towards us one final time and, in a quiet low voice that echoed in my ears for a long time afterwards, said, ‘Look after yourselves.’

He was led out of the door. As the last of the soldiers walked out we followed and stood just outside our front door. The snow was still coming down hard, and Volodimir and the soldiers tramped through it. He was bundled into the back of a truck. The engine roared as the driver clunked into gear and pulled away. Volodimir just gazed out from the back of the truck and we watched as he disappeared down our approach and away down the road. Mother dropped to her knees and, once again, began to sob.

Chapter 5

Ukrainian proverb: When one dog barks at nothing, a dozen will bark with him

It was as if I’d lost an arm or a leg. Volodimir was my big brother and he’d always looked out for me, we looked out for each other, but he’d been carted off by the Nazis, and I was left alone. I was like an orphan. The bedroom I’d shared with him was now more like a barn, it was too big. It was strange to be on my own in there. I had no one to talk to before I went to sleep. Consequently, I spent most nights half awake, wishing he was back with us. Sometimes, I’d find myself talking to the walls, as if he was still there. His bed was opposite mine in our room, and in the mornings I found myself walking over to it to wake him up, just like I’d always had to.

A week passed. Then two, and then three. We heard nothing. Would we hear anything from him ever again? We carried on living, day by day, but in something of a daze it has to be said. I carried on going to school, and my friends all asked me where Volodimir was. I had to choke back tears and be a Kozak as I told them. Then, they told me about their older brothers, cousins and neighbours. That very same evening, many of them had been hauled off by the Nazis.

It was systematic. The Nazis treated us as if we were nothing. Or less than nothing. We were just there to serve them. If we didn’t do what they requested then we knew we’d be shot. Because, before long, we found out the extent of their wickedness.

As always, the information was passed on from house to house, whispered behind closed doors, through cupped hands into Ukrainian ears. The Nazis were committing mass murder. It was clear that they’d embarked on a programme to wipe out as many Jews as possible, but not only Jews. They were killing Ukrainians, and other nationalities. More than ever, our lives became about survival.

Living in a war zone carried so much uncertainty. Not only were we occupied by the Nazi invaders, but we had Ukrainian Resistance and Russian Partisans operating in the area. It was chaos. The Nazis took some of the produce from our smallholding, and then we had the Ukrainian Resistance approach us for supplies. By the time the Russian Partisans came there was little left. There was one occasion, in the chill of an early evening, when a pair of Russians came into the village and walked up our approach. It wasn’t the first time they’d come calling, but on this particular occasion, instead of giving them anything, Father got his shovel out and stood in the doorway of our house, ‘Away with you! There’s nothing here for you!’

I came outside with him and one of our neighbours also came out, with his shovel. The Russians didn’t hang around. They fled back into the gloom, back into the murky outskirts of the village. For once we’d managed, in a small way, to defend ourselves and see off some of our adversaries. Okay, so we risked some retribution, but it was unlikely. The Russian Partisans had the Ukrainian Resistance to deal with if they did anything to us.

Our radio crackled away, and as the next few weeks and months passed we heard all about the Nazi drive to the east. They’d captured Kiev and were advancing into Russia, moving like a swarm of metal clad vipers towards Moscow. They seemed unstoppable. As the front moved further east, things calmed down in our village, and life became a little more settled. There were still plenty of soldiers around, but not quite as many as when the Nazis first arrived.

It was around the summer of that year, 1942, that the trains started running again, delivering goods, equipment and mail from the west, from across the border and beyond. These deliveries took place almost daily. Often, my friends and I would stop off near the train tracks on our way to school in the fuzzy haze of the summer mornings. We’d stand on top of an embankment, watching the sunrise, breathing in the warm air and drinking in that golden sun. We’d wait, with a misty silence swirling around our shoulders. We boys pierced through it by shouting, laughing and by fooling around in general. We collected big stones and threw them across to the other side, to see who could throw the farthest or hit one of the trees on the embankment opposite. We ran along into the orange glow of the rising sun. And then, after a while, we heard a rattle echoing from beyond. Thick black smoke poured over the horizon and then she came into view. It was a wonderful sight. With the funnel coughing out smoke, the wheels and connecting straps rotating furiously, the train roared around the bend, the bumpers and front plate of the engine gleaming. We jumped and cheered, and shouted down the bank. The driver leant out of the window of his cab and gave us a big wave.

We knew there was a cargo about to be unloaded, and that meant we might get something good to eat. To us boys, who’d been through famine, through hardships, who’d walked past dead bodies in the road stripped of flesh and turned into skeletons because of the Soviets, this was a blessing and a gift from God.

Nazi soldiers ushered us away from the entrance of the train station because we were making a nuisance of ourselves as always, and with those rifles pointing at us, we didn’t hang around. We continued our walk to school, but in my head I imagined all sorts of delicacies laden on a table. I hoped that, on those trains, would be food for us, endless supplies, with sumptuous aromas and flavours. To be able to sit at a feast and fill ourselves up like never before was a dream I’d had many times.

The Nazis employed local men to unload the trains, and those workers were paid in German Marks. It proved to be a great motivator. Some men got there in the early hours of the morning to secure such a position, others camped out overnight in often freezing conditions. Father never managed to get himself one of these jobs. Well, it was almost a fight to the death at times. There was more than one occasion when a pair of the men from the village would end up grappling with each other, while the Nazi soldiers looked on in amusement, as if they were watching a pair of dogs fighting for scraps.

Despite these petty wrangles, the fact the Marks came into circulation meant we could trade with each other for a wider range of goods. The trains were unloaded, and the goods transported over to the village hall. Father and some of our other neighbours went down there to see what was available, to see if they could exchange some of their own produce for tins of meat or fish. Many times Father came back with a bagful of assorted tins. Mother would pierce one of them with a knife and we’d have marinated herrings for dinner, with lovely fresh slices of buttered bread. I thought of Volodimir at times like these and I looked across at the empty space at the kitchen table. Sometimes I was sure I could feel him there, as if there was something in the air. It was strange. One evening, I sat in his place at the table and was surprised when the seat was warm. Other times, I thought about him sitting there with his big smile. I would’ve gladly given up my portion of herring to see his face again.

Then, one day, I came home from school, walked through the door and found Father sitting at the kitchen table with a strange expression on his face. A small smile was curling up at the edges of his mouth, but his eyes were reddening around the edges, and his eyebrows were furrowed as if he was struggling to contain himself. We looked at each other for a few seconds. Then he jumped straight up and walked towards me holding an envelope in his hand,

‘
We’ve got a letter, Stefan! It’s from Volodimir! He’s fine. Here, read it.’

He thrust the envelope into my outstretched hand. I stood there and looked at it. Mother was stood at her stove as usual, but she didn’t move. She was looking at me, not taking her eyes off me, ‘Open it, Stefan,’ she finally said.

I pulled a small, flimsy sheet of paper out of the envelope and ran my eyes across it. It was from him! My big brother. My heart leapt inside me as I read those words:

Dear Mother, Father and Stefan,

I’m in a place called Bochum, in the western part of Germany. There are many young Ukrainians here, both men and women. The Germans look after us well, we have enough food, and our life is good. The Germans will win the war and then I can come home and work on our land again, with all of you. I hope to taste Mother’s cooking soon and I hope you are all well.

Volodimir

It didn’t say much, and the Nazi censors had run their eyes across it to make sure there were no negative words written about them; several sentences had been blacked out. At least we knew he was still alive! Once I’d read the letter, I ran up to Father and we embraced each other. Even though Volodimir was far away, at least I knew there was a chance I might see him again. My heart bounced around inside my chest like it was on a piece of elastic. It was a moment of pure joy, and, in those days, we had to make the most of such occasions. Father poured himself a large glass of
horilka
. Mother opened up one of the tins and we had slices of bread and ham, and she also placed a jar of home-made pickled cucumbers on the table. For an hour or two we chattered about Volodimir and how we hoped he’d be able to come home soon. I went to bed much happier that evening, happier than I’d been for some time.

Meanwhile, all around us things became a little calmer. The activities of the Resistance and the Partisans died off. We all speculated they were perhaps concentrating on targets nearer the front, or maybe on other more important strategic positions. We weren’t complaining.

That summer of 1943 was a beautiful one, and, despite the Nazi occupation, we boys tore around the village going about our business. We’d get our chores done, and then in the afternoons we’d laze around the lake, and maybe try and catch some fish. All the usual things we’d always done, but it just wasn’t the same without Volodimir. I’ll never be able to explain fully how much of a hole he left behind him, and when I got home the mood was different. The thing is, two boys together make a lot of noise. I was on my own. I had no one to argue with, or to laugh and joke with. We always argued over everything and anything, which of us had the biggest portion of food, or who was the fastest or the strongest. Okay, I had the wooden aeroplanes and the tin soldiers to play with, but it wasn’t much fun on my own.

Then, one morning during that summer, I got out of bed and went into the kitchen. Mother was there, as always, mixing and stirring in large ceramic bowls, always making sure there was enough bread, or kneading dough to make
varenyky
. Those small dumplings filled with mashed potato and cheese were simply delicious and I smiled to myself as I thought about how Volodimir and I always competed to see which of us could eat the most, until Mother would scold us,

‘
Boys, boys! That’s enough now, you’ll end up getting belly ache, you’ve had plenty.’ We were growing boys and we loved our food.

I stood there, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, still with thoughts of Volodimir lingering in my mind. Mother turned her head and gave me a small, sad smile. I caught my breath. It dawned on me that something was missing: Mother’s singing. Those lovely, sweet melodies which always lifted my spirits were no longer floating around our house.

‘
Mother, why don’t you sing anymore?’ I blurted out.

She turned around and looked at me, ‘I miss him so much, you know, Stefan. I can’t sing when he’s not here. It’s like part of me has been torn away. When he comes back, then maybe I’ll find my voice again.’ I walked towards her. She pulled me closer and clasped me to her bosom. My beautiful Mother, she was so warm and loving. I wondered how Volodimir would be, without her near him. To be taken away from his family and sent to work as a slave labourer must have been so sorrowful for him, I really felt for him. However, we received several more letters from him over a period of months which were delivered to the village hall, and the tone of them was quite cheerful, but that was typical of him, he wouldn’t have wanted us to worry about him and he would also have stayed defiant in the face of his Nazi overlords.

Meanwhile, life carried on. The area around the village hall became a buzzing area of trade, and pretty much the centre of village life. We boys became quite friendly with some of the soldiers who manned the communications room. Well, I guess it was quite boring for them sat in their office, sending and receiving messages. There were four of them, and they were all fanatical about football. During their breaks we’d often see them kicking a ball around. One day, they invited us to join in, and after a kick around, we challenged them to a game, using a combination of our clumsy German and making signs with our hands. It was to be four against four, and the first to five goals would win. We marked out a small pitch on a field next to the village hall, using jackets for the goalposts. As always, I kept goal. The Germans were young, fit soldiers, but their stiff uniforms hampered them to an extent. Even so, they expected to win, and they got off to a good start with two quick goals in succession, with some slick passing and a couple of darting runs from the back by the short stocky one with the shaved head, who grabbed both those goals. They were smiling and looking a little smug, obviously thinking they’d got the beating of us. But, they hadn’t reckoned on Miron. Of all my friends, he was the most naturally sporty. He could swim the fastest and the furthest, and he could perform somersaults, cartwheels and flips. He was strong as a bullock, but, best of all, he was a shining star when it came to playing football. We knew our only hope of beating the soldiers was to get the ball to Miron. So that’s what we did. He controlled it in a flash and set off on a weaving run with the ball seemingly attached to his feet. He glided past a couple of the soldiers, and then struck a low, hard shot into the goal. He repeated this move twice more and the soldiers stood scratching their heads. We had the lead, three goals to two. The next time Miron got the ball, three of the soldiers surrounded him. With a sly and silky touch he slipped the ball through one of the soldier’s legs and the ball rolled to Taras who sent it screaming past the keeper for another goal. That was four two. The soldiers rolled up their sleeves and really got to work. They became a little more physical, barging into us to stop us getting the ball off them. They strung together a few passes and one of them cracked in a fierce shot from half way down the pitch. I was right behind it but fumbled my catch. The ball fell kindly for another of their team who swept it home. I was annoyed with myself, and perhaps a little downcast.