Sliding on the Snow Stone (8 page)

I looked at Volodimir and between us, we couldn’t find any words. Well, what could you say? We’d been through a period of terror with the Soviets where people were taken out to dig their own graves and then shot in the back of the head, and I wondered whether the Nazis used similar methods. Inside my head I was praying, desperately hoping this was not to be Father’s fate. There was no way of escape. There were soldiers guarding all access routes in and out of the village, they were everywhere. A curfew had been imposed on us. No one was allowed out of their homes after ten. Anyhow, Father wished for us all to stick together. There’s no way he would have left us and run away. We sat through our supper in a silence that threatened to suffocate us all. Father couldn’t eat. He drummed his fingers on the table as he tried to get through his meal of potato pancakes and soured cream. He shuffled his feet. We sat and watched him, hardly daring to move. It was agony. In the end he stood up and threw his chair back, ‘It’s no good. I don’t like to see food go to waste, but right now I need a drink.’

He walked across the kitchen and opened up the cabinet in the corner. He took out a bottle of
horilka
*, got himself a glass, and poured a generous measure. He took a mouthful and then topped up his glass again. His shoulders dropped and he seemed to relax a little. He strolled across the room and walked through the door, into our parlour. He sat down on the sofa and breathed deeply. Volodimir and I left the kitchen table and joined him. We sat either side of him, just as we’d done when we were little.

‘
Boys, whatever happens to me, you must take care of your mother, you know that don’t you?’ Yes was the only answer we could give to that question. Father smiled at us in turn, and ruffled our hair, almost spilling his glass of
horilka
. He somehow managed a small throaty laugh. I held onto him tight. So did Volodimir.

Mother finished up her tidying in the kitchen and came through to sit with us. She brought the bottle of
horilka
through, ‘Here Mikola, have one more, but then that’ll be enough. You need a clear head for the morning.’ Father drained the rest of his glass and Mother poured him another large one. The atmosphere became a little warmer. Mother turned on the radio, but instead of tuning into news broadcasts, she found a music station. We listened for a while, even whispering some of the words under our breath at times, but we couldn’t fully lose ourselves in the music, our minds were occupied. Inside our heads we were fighting to hold off images of devastation, of tragedy, of what might be to come.

There were many hugs exchanged that evening before we went to bed. Mother’s eyes reddened, and so did those of mine and Volodimir, but we fought the tears back. The Kozak blood inside us diluted the fear. One day I hoped we’d assemble an army. A mass of men, on horseback with blades and bullets. With righteousness on our side and with the wind behind us, we’d crush all who’d oppose us. Destroy them, all those who brought misery upon us, tear out their hearts and watch as the soil beneath our feet drank down their blood. Free ourselves from the chains of the invaders. Those were my thoughts as I lay down in my bed.

Sleep wouldn’t come. I thought about Father. All about our lives and how we’d grown up. The memories soothed me, despite everything. Even with all the terror and hunger around us, we’d stayed together and survived. He’d always done his best for his family. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep.

When morning came, the piercing autumn sun poured through the cracks in our curtains and filled the bedroom with stabs of radiant warmth. I threw my blankets back and got out of bed. I made my way to the kitchen where Mother was silently occupied at a work table, ‘Stefan, hurry up, or you’ll be late for school.’

‘
Where’s Father?’

‘
He’s gone.’ For a second or two, the finality of that statement, of those two small words, struck me like hammer blows. Then we carried on. As if nothing was wrong. I ate some bread, then got dressed and walked to school with Volodimir.

The day creaked along, like an old barn door flapping in a gale. My head was full of so many thoughts, I couldn’t focus on anything. The teachers scolded me for daydreaming. I just wanted to go home.

At the end of the school day, Volodimir and I made our way home together. We didn’t know whether to walk or run. A gentle breeze blew dead leaves around our legs. At first we dragged our feet, and then we ran as fast as we could until we reached the next bend in the road. Then we walked a short way until we got some of our breath back. Then we ran again. We continued in this fashion all the way home. Whether we were walking or running, we gasped for breath, sometimes hard, sometimes not so hard. This meant we couldn’t talk to each other; we couldn’t even think. We didn’t want to think.

At last we arrived home. All was quiet. We walked up our approach. The geese waddled up to us honking away and flapping their wings, but for once I didn’t want to hear them and hurried indoors with Volodimir. Mother was sitting on a chair in the kitchen. She looked worn out with worry. We both ran over to her and hugged her,

‘
Oh, boys, boys! My beautiful boys. It’s like a breath of fresh air when you come home. You make the sun shine in my heart, you know that don’t you?’ We both smiled at her, but those smiles soon faded, ‘Is Father back yet?’ ventured Volodimir.

‘
Not yet, no. But, he’ll be here, I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’ She wiped her eyes with her apron, stood up and poured us both a glass of milk.

It began to get dark. Volodimir lit our oil lamps while Mother dished up our supper. None of us said very much while we ate. The wind was howling around our house. We heard the rustle of the trees and a nearby fence rattled and groaned. The noises made us lift our heads up. We sat and ate with one eye on the door.

Finally, with God’s mercy, we heard footsteps and the door opened. Father walked in. He stood there with filthy black hands and face, covered in what looked like earth, but in spite of this, he smiled at us. We ran over to him, but he held his palms up, ‘Well, I have to say I’m glad to be back, but let me get myself cleaned up, and then we can all sit down together.’

Mother poured some hot water into a bucket and passed it to Father who carried it out to our back yard. I jumped up and took an oil lamp out for him. The wind had dropped and the evening was calmer. Father stripped off and washed himself down as best he could in the low light from the lamp. He towelled himself down and came inside where he got changed and combed his hair.

He came through to the kitchen to eat his supper and flopped down onto a chair. We let him eat his supper in peace. He demolished his cabbage stuffed with buckwheat in very little time. Then he stretched his arms up and placed them on the back of his head for a few seconds. He looked like the life had been drained out of him. ‘Well, I expect you want to hear all about what happened today, so let’s go through to the parlour eh?’ He picked up a hot cup of tea that Mother had made him, and led the way. We all trooped through. He dropped himself down on the sofa, and we all sat around him.

‘
There were four open trucks, and about thirty of us all climbed in and tried to make ourselves comfortable. It was a bumpy ride. The driver had little or no thought at all for us, his human cargo. He flew around all the bends at crazy speeds. Eventually we were in open countryside. It must have been quite a few miles away from here. I didn’t recognise where we were. They ordered us out of the trucks and, as we climbed out, we were given a spade. Then we set to work. They wanted us to dig up the soil from the land around us and load it into the trucks. We had barrows and planks of wood to ferry the earth. But as soon as they told us to load the soil into the trucks I knew we were to be spared the bullet. Otherwise they’d have left the soil next to the ditch to cover the evidence. We worked all day, like dogs. They gave us a cup of water twice a day, and some thin vegetable soup for our lunch. They worked us hard. If any one of us stopped, we were cuffed by a soldier and told to carry on. It was harsh, very harsh.’

‘
But what did they want the soil for?’ asked Volodimir.

‘
Well, that’s a very good question, Volodimir. And it was one that puzzled us all. Until word got round. Someone overhead one of the drivers joking about what he was going to do later that evening when he got back home to Germany.’

‘
Germany?’ Volodimir frowned.

‘
They’re stealing our land. Our beloved black soil. You know they call us the Breadbasket of Europe don’t you? Well, of course you do boys, and everyone else in Europe knows it too.’

We’d been taught this in school. Ukraine’s earth was rich and fertile, perfect for growing just about anything you wanted. Father carried on, ‘They’re thieves, no better than the Soviets. They may turn out to be even worse, who knows?’ The Nazi invaders had got their feet firmly planted on our land in a very short space of time, and their intention was to steal it from beneath us and shift it back to Germany.  Father endured this backbreaking work until the end of the week until he was no longer needed. The Nazis had taken all they wanted. There was no payment. It must have been heartbreaking for him to be an instrument in the Nazis’ crime. We Ukrainians didn’t have much. The soil beneath us was one of our most valuable assets. In high summer the rolling fields of golden wheat were a truly wonderful sight. The vegetables we grew were plump and delicious with rich colours. The grass sprouted in thick juicy clumps and provided a nutritious source of food to make our cows fatter. To take this land away was a violation.

He arrived back home a little earlier than usual on the Friday afternoon. He walked up our approach. Mother was standing at the gate. He walked up to her and he could see she was upset, ‘Olha, what’s the matter?’

‘
Listen.’ she replied.

Father listened, but he couldn’t hear anything. He furrowed his eyebrows and cocked his head to one side to try and hear something, ‘I can’t hear anything, Olha.’

‘
Look.’ She pointed to the enclosure. The one which housed the geese. It was empty.

‘
Where are they?’ said Father.

‘
The soldiers came this morning. They said they needed food for their troops, and they just ripped the fence down and took them. I tried to stop them, but the Officer, it was the one called Wulf, he gave me such a look I thought he was going to kill me. I was scared, Mikola, I’m sorry.’

‘
No, Olha, you did the right thing. These damned Nazis are here to take everything from us. We know that now. God damn them to Hell!’

Mother and Father stood there together in a silence which lasted a few seconds until it was broken by the sound of honking! A lone goose wandered out from the enclosure, looking a little sorry for itself.

‘
Right,’ said Father, ‘see this goose? I’m going to make sure the Nazis don’t get their thieving hands on it.’

He grabbed hold of the goose around its neck. It honked and flapped frantically, like it knew it was on borrowed time. Father took it to a small outhouse at the side of our barn and butchered it. That evening we had something of a feast. The goose was roasted and Mother prepared potatoes and fried cabbage to go with it. We hadn’t eaten such a meal for some time. I remember sitting there with my belly full and with a big smile on my face. Of course it meant we wouldn’t have any more goose eggs, but I could see Father’s reasoning. Better that we should eat the goose before the Nazis took it.

This was how things unfolded. We’d hoped that the Soviet style of collective farming would be eradicated under the Nazis. We were wrong. The soldiers, upon the command of Wulf, took two thirds or maybe even three quarters of our land. They just charged in, with their rifles and bayonets and took everything. They kept us toiling on our own land, but for their own benefit, to feed their own soldiers. We kept many of our supplies well hidden, but we had to be careful. The soldiers were always around. They visited all the local smallholdings on a daily basis to collect whatever food they could to feed their army. We were left with the scraps.

One day, Wulf marched onto our back yard. Mother and Father went out and greeted him. He stood upright, with his legs apart and his arms folded across his chest. Flanked by armed infantrymen, he fixed Father with his iron gaze, ‘So. I’m informed you have a cow here?’

‘
We do, Sir. She gives us milk. We make butter and cheese with it. That cow is a blessing to us, Sir.’

Wulf strode up to the barn and looked at our cow, ‘Well then, you must provide for our soldiers. After all, we are here to offer you and your family protection from the damned Bolsheviks, therefore I must insist that you supply milk, butter and cheese on a regular basis. I’ll assign a soldier to collect the rations. You won’t let me down, will you?’ We all breathed a collective sigh of relief, but tried not let it show. We stood impassive, like nothing could touch us. Our faces betrayed nothing. That was something we’d learned under the Soviets, never give anything away. Father nodded and agreed to provide some supplies, but secretly, inside he was glad the Nazis weren’t taking the cow away. We all were. Because our cow was a lifeline. Even if we gave the Nazis half of what she produced we’d still have enough for ourselves, but again, Father took steps to hide extra rations. Just enough for those times when we were running short, or enough to pass on to our grandmother in the next village.