One day, not long after Sasha left, Father took Volodimir and me for a walk down to the river in Vinnitsya. He wanted to show us some of the sights in the town, and get us away from the daily drudgery in the village. The three of us walked along together talking about everything and anything. As we were just arriving in the town a man approached. It was one of the Soviet officials who sometimes came to our village; one of the lower ranks. ‘Good morning Mr Szpuk, how are you and your family today?’
Father looked at him with maybe a hint of suspicion in his eyes, but without giving much away, and then he said, ‘Good morning. I’m well. We’re all well. But can you tell me the whereabouts of one of my neighbours? He was taken away just over a week ago?’
‘Mr Szpuk, you know I can’t tell you anything at all about any particular individual. That information is classified.’
‘But he didn’t do anything wrong.’
The official narrowed his eyes, ‘Mr Szpuk, I would advise you not to say any more. You are in a better position than you may imagine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, we have it on record that you’ve been to America. But you rejected their bourgeois lifestyle and returned to our glorious Soviet heartland. That is highly commendable and it stands you in good stead. But you still need to be careful.’
With that he stepped aside and walked on, leaving us standing there open mouthed. What he said was true. Father did go to America when he was a young man in search of work, but there was none. It was no better over there, so he came back.
To the Soviets this was a victory. It proved to them they were right with their Bolshevik ideas and plans. So, perhaps for this reason, Father survived the Soviet purges. Not many did. We had our walk around the town. Father pointed out some of the landmarks, some of the old churches and buildings, and as he spoke to us I couldn’t help thinking to myself how lucky we were he hadn’t been taken away. I didn’t want to lose him.
In those years following the Holodomor, our situation was better in that we had a little more food. No-one was starving anymore and that was a blessing, but even so, our rations were sparse. Each person was allowed a slice of bread, and we were permitted to grow vegetables in the small plot that was still our own. Mother struggled to stretch our rations to feed us. Sometimes, in the summer, she would collect up a selection of the vegetables, if we had enough to spare, and walk into the town. It was a long way. There she would sell the vegetables and buy some cuts of meat for us, if any were available at the right price, but those occasions were few. Most days I woke up hungry and went to bed hungry. Everybody did what they could to get more food, from wherever they could.
Not far from where we lived was a carp farm. It was constructed in a small lake where we boys went to swim in the summer. The lake was patrolled by guards, and there were numerous signs everywhere forbidding fishing, but that didn’t stop us boys. What we did was get hold of a small length of sturdy stick, about one inch in diameter and about six inches long. We also got some very fine twine and some hooks. With these we each constructed a fishing line and concealed the stick in one of the tufts of grass on the bank of the lake, digging it in to make it secure, and keeping it concealed. Sometimes when we were doing this a guard would appear in the distance. At such times Volodimir would dive into the water with Miron and they’d clown around to distract the guard, even just for a few moments while we finished digging the sticks in and cast our lines, using worms for bait.
Volodimir was a strong swimmer. He’d turn somersaults and do handstands in the water. That always got a laugh from the guard. Then he’d carry on walking towards us. ‘Hello there, boys.’
We all replied loudly, ‘Hello Mister!’ We grinned up at him. Brashness and bravado was usually enough to take his attention away from ever finding our secret fishing lines. He smiled at us, ‘Enjoy your swim boys. You’ve picked a beautiful day for it.’
So then we’d take turns to swim or to keep an eye on the sticks. We couldn’t use floats because the guard would be able to work out what was happening so it was simply a case of pulling each line in every so often to see whether we’d got a bite. On several occasions I came home with a lovely big carp tucked inside my shirt. Mother would prepare it and we’d all eat well those evenings. Those carp were tasty.
Otherwise, we survived on very little. Not only was food in short supply, there was also a shortage of fuel. We bought a supply of coal in for the winter but again, this was rationed. Many times, after dark, I went with Father to a nearby railway depot where freight trains sometimes stopped overnight. One of these carried logs and, whenever we could, we helped ourselves to as many as we could carry. They were heavy. Of course, we were stealing, and it was best not to think what the Soviets might do if they caught us, but we had no choice. It was either steal the logs in the pitch black of night or freeze.
It was as if they were slowly trying to erase us. Our village looked like it might crumble away. The local church had been shut down and boarded up and the churchyard was completely overgrown. It was like a jungle. When going to and from school we’d pass by houses with their windows smashed in or boards nailed across them. Their front gardens would be covered in weeds and rubbish, and their rusty gates swung back and forth, creaking in the breeze. We saw duck ponds that had become overgrown and infested, cowsheds that were falling apart, and abandoned vegetable plots which had rotted down and turned to foul smelling mush. Worst of all, every now and then we’d walk past the charred remains of what had once been dwellings. Their smoky fumes lingered in the air and the stench locked itself into the air. To look across and see what remained was truly heartbreaking. It was a black landscape. Charcoal dust still hung in the air and, if we weren’t careful, drifted into our throats, making us cough and splutter, so we hurried away from them. Anyhow, they were spooky. There was something quite eerie about the smallholdings that had been set on fire, as if they were still occupied in some way.
One day, someone from our group of boys suggested going into one of these deserted houses. I can’t recall who it was. I reckon it may have been Sasha before he ran off to join the Resistance, but I’m not sure.
There was Volodimir, Miron, Sasha and me. We cautiously walked up the cobbled approach. The wind was howling around our ears and I swallowed. It was a bright, sunny day, but goose bumps formed on my arms and shoulders as we approached that house. We walked up a set of steps to a side entrance door. There were cobwebs everywhere, and we dragged them out of our hair with our fingers. Miron tried the handle. The door creaked open. We walked in, feeling our way and bumping into each other, it was pitch black in there. The air smelt sickly sweet like treacle. We stumbled in and disturbed the thick layer of dust that lay inside. Coughing and spluttering, we walked around banging into furniture and tripping over until Volodimir said, ‘Let’s get out of here!’
We scrambled to get out. It was a relief to get out into the daylight. We walked back down the approach. It felt as if we’d just been walking around in a tomb. As if we’d just been inside the death of our nation.
Would we just watch as we were systematically destroyed one by one? Or would we fight back? I was glad that Sasha had run away to join the Resistance. He was a born warrior, a true Kozak. With more like him maybe we stood a chance.
This was how we lived, always looking over our shoulders and taking care what we said. The Soviets were everywhere, waiting and listening. It was as if we were hiding, or sleeping. One day we’d wake up and the nightmare would be over. That’s what we hoped. We just wanted to be free.
The Soviets kept us in our place, we were in their grip, and of course they fed lies, to us and the outside world. They were forever proclaiming how glorious and wonderful their Soviet Republic was. It was as if the outside world couldn’t see or hear, and we had no way of telling them anything. We were cut off. So when one day Father came home with an old radio he’d bought from one of his workmates, we were fascinated. He loaded in some batteries and flicked a swit
ch. It crackled into life. He played with the controls and there was a good deal of high-pitched whining, and then there was a voice. It spoke in German. Now, Father was a keen scholar of languages, and we all learned German in school, so we all had some understanding. Volodimir and I were quick to recognise the odd word or phrase and call them out but Father raised a finger to his lips and told us both to shush. He had a much greater command of the language. He listened closely for a good few minutes, then he spoke to us, ‘It’s a news broadcast from Berlin. The German army has invaded Czechoslovakia. They’re moving east. God help us, let them come and free us from the Bolsheviks.’
The signal then faded, and Father carried on tuning until he got another strong signal. This time the voice spoke in Russian, ‘All citizens of the Soviet Union have a duty to fight for our glorious Motherland, Russia. The German menace is getting closer. They are barbarians. They will come and slaughter us. They will murder our children. They will rape our women, and they will steal or destroy everything we have. We must drive them away. We must stand together shoulder to shoulder like good Bolsheviks. We will never give in to the vicious Hun. Remember, it is your duty.’
Those words sent a chill through us. We knew that the Soviets would gladly send us all to our deaths to save themselves, and if we refused then we’d most likely be shot.
We wondered what would happen should the Germans invade. Surely it couldn’t be any worse than life under the Soviets? The three of us, Father, Volodimir and I all leant over the radio listening closely, but then we heard a noise behind us which made all three of us turn around. Mother was sitting on a chair with her face in her hands, sobbing. She looked up at us, tears streaming down her cheeks, ‘No! Please no. No more war. I can’t stand it. We can’t take any more death. Surely we’ve had enough? Please God, don’t let it happen.’ She clasped her hands together and looked up towards the ceiling.
The three of us stood there feeling some shame. She was right. She had every reason to cry. Her first husband had died during the First World War. He’d joined the Imperial Russian Army and died in combat, probably killed by a fellow Ukrainian fighting for the Austro-Hungarians. We never knew, but it was senseless. As always, we Ukrainians got caught up in the crossfire of a bloody conflict between our neighbours. Volodimir and I put our arms around her, and Father fiddled with the radio once again until he found some music. It was a cheery, folksy sort of tune, with a young girl singing in a shrill voice, accompanied by mandolins and accordions. It didn’t quite fit the moment, none of us were in the mood to sing along or dance, but we listened all the same. It certainly filled an awkward moment.
That radio became a part of our everyday lives. Father had to limit our listening to an hour every evening, because we were getting through too many batteries. So we listened to stories and songs as often as we could. It freed us from our daily slog even if only for a short time. It helped us to forget how hungry we were, and how we were crushed beneath the Soviet boot of Bolshevism. It put a smile on our faces. Later, when we’d gone to bed I often heard the radio’s high-pitched whine, and I knew Father was tuning in to news broadcasts.
All through the village a sense of anticipation started to grow. More and more people were getting hold of these radio sets. The Soviets seemed unaware of what was happening. For sure, if they knew what we were all listening to, then the radio sets would have been taken away from us and destroyed.
The air was alive with expectation, but not only that, there was a real sense of foreboding. None of us knew what was coming. Whatever it was, and whatever might happen, there was a shred of hope.
The summer of 1939 was one which I would never forget. We boys spent our time swimming at the lake and trying to catch fish. We ran races and played football in the beautiful sunshine. I was 11 years old and I was due to return to school within the coming week.
Volodimir and I returned home one evening right at the end of the summer to find Mother and Father in a state of some excitement. Mother was pacing up and down wringing her hands and occasionally stopping to say to herself, ‘Oh dear God help us! Please help us!’
Father, on the other hand, was standing upright, head high like a Kozak. He looked at us, his cheeks flushed. ‘It’s started boys. It really is happening. The Germans have invaded Poland. They’re on our doorstep.’ The radio was blaring away in the background. Volodimir and I looked at each other. We didn’t know what to say. None of knew what was around the corner, but we hoped and prayed it might lead to better times.
Chapter 3
Ukrainian proverb: The devil always takes back his gifts
If I could go back in time and change one thing, I know what that would be. For Mother to live her life in peace. She’d been through so much. Never once did I hear her complain, through the toughest of times, and with the mountain of hard work she faced every day in bringing up a family on a smallholding. She cooked, cleaned and worked our land. The cow got milked and fed before sunrise, and after that she never stopped all day. She seemed to survive on very little sleep. If I was up early at five or six, I’d find her in the kitchen baking or cooking with what little was available to her. She did the very best she could for us from virtually nothing. We were a close family and I think she feared for us. It was 1939 and the Nazis had just invaded Poland. I was 12 and Volodimir was 14. Although we were still boys it was common for those of our age to be conscripted into the Red Army and sent out into battle. The Nazis were becoming more of a threat and they were getting too close for comfort, certainly we thought the Soviets would be alarmed at the prospect of Nazi jackboots crossing their borders. All we could do was wait and see what the Soviets would do next.
I was very young when I first became aware of how Mother liked to sing. That was how I knew she was nearby. A melody would drift through the air, just ever so gently, it always made me lift my head up. Then she’d appear, usually carrying a load of washing or a basket of vegetables, but with a look of rapture on her face, as if she was lost in some world inside herself. Where everything was how it should be, with angels looking over us and with plenty of everything.
Many times Mother and Father sat down together after our evening meal and sang. Between them, they knew many traditional Ukrainian folk songs with real strong melodies. Some of them were humorous, others were sad. Volodimir and I loved the funny ones. Now and again the radio would play some of these old tunes, and we all sang along. It lifted our spirits and it made sure we never forgot who we were and where we’d come from. This was our land. We just wanted to be left alone to live our lives in peace, but our neighbours wouldn’t let us. Both the Poles and the Soviets had invaded us throughout our history. We were stuck in between them and we’d been ravaged from both sides many times down the ages. Was it all about to come down on us once again?
Father spent more and more time listening to the radio. Sometimes he’d sit next to it for hours tuning into different stations trying to find out what was going on. All we knew was that the Nazis had advanced into Poland and were driving towards us. All we could do was sit and listen. The radio gave us some information, but there was no way of knowing what was true and what was a lie. That was what the Soviet regime did to us, they turned us inside out with their propaganda.
So, we got our information from other sources. Whispers drifted across to us from all corners of the land, not from announcements on the radio. It filtered through by word of mouth. From village to village and town to town. It got muttered in so many Ukrainian ears. They were on the march. None of us said very much to each other about the rumours. We knew what the Soviets were capable of. Would they come for us in the middle of the night? At gunpoint. To force us to join them and march to the front. Once we got there they’d most likely send us out with one rifle between five to try and do battle with the Nazis.
We didn’t want to wear the Red Army uniform and be part of what that stood for. What we really wanted was a free Ukraine, but that seemed more out of reach than ever, so we held our breat
h and waited. It was like we were frozen. As if we’d seized up. Every day we went about our business as normal. To school or work, and the endless struggle to get fed and keep warm kept us occupied. It was as if we were waiting for something to happen. All the time, our eyes were on the horizon.
Then one night, it must have been close to midnight, a big commotion came our way. The handle on our bedroom door rattled, and the glass in the window trembled. There was a low rumble in the distance. Volodimir and I woke up wondering what was happening.
‘Volodimir! What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know! What in Heaven’s name can it be?’
The rumbling increased. It seemed to be underneath us, on top of us and all around us, all at once. Was the ground about to swallow us up? At that point Father burst into our room, ‘Boys, stay quiet and keep your heads down!’
We both buried our heads in our pillows and pulled our blankets right up. The vibrations got stronger and gradually the noise grew even more, it pounded in my ears as if our village were being bombarded by large rocks and boulders from a landslide. I sat up, and in the moonlight creeping through our curtains, saw that Volodimir had done the same. The noise got louder and louder. The three of us edged across to the window and looked through the curtains. There was a flickering line of white light hovering in the sky. It was growing and getting closer. The roar of engines filled the air. I don’t know about Father or Volodimir but I remember very well my heart beating so hard in my chest I thought I might explode. Then we saw them. Soviet trucks, one after the other, driving right past our house. They were all different sizes. Some were covered, others carried machinery or armoured vehicles. The procession seemed to go on forever. This was it. The Red Army was right in amongst us. They were heading west, towards the border we shared with Poland. I really hoped they wouldn’t hang around. Occasionally they seemed to slow down as if they might stop and my heart pounded again, but thankfully, they picked up in speed once again and after about 20 minutes the procession tailed off. The noise and the glow faded into the distance. We breathed again. This time we’d been spared, but for how long? There was no way of knowing whether the trucks would stop somewhere nearby and then visit all the local villages to conscript men and boys, or whether they would head straight to the border. The silence and the darkness were back with us.