Sliding on the Snow Stone (15 page)

Slavka smiled shyly at Sasha and giggled. She walked up to him and stood very close to him. He put his arm around her, set the pail down, and they walked into a nearby glade, where they put their arms around each other. I sat back down on the rocks, with the pail at my feet, and the little one just kept looking on with her wide eyes, ‘Why do you look so sad?’ she said.

I tried to smile. ‘I don’t want to leave Ukraine.’

‘
Why do you have to?’ she replied.

‘
Because the war is coming this way. We’ve got no choice.’

She pulled a wooden bracelet off her wrist and passed it to me. It was constructed of small wooden beads.

‘
Keep this bracelet, so that wherever you are, you’ll always have a piece of Ukraine with you. My uncle made it for me.’

I put the bracelet in my pocket just as Sasha came back. ‘Come on, Stefan, we need to go.’ After the swiftest of goodbyes to the two girls, Sasha and I clambered back up to our camp where we all feasted on those
varenyky
, those plump little pockets of dough filled with potato and cheese. They were still warm and had been doused with onions fried in butter. For once we ate well. We all went to sleep with our bellies full.

The following morning, we walked that last couple of miles or so, stopping now and again for Sasha and his men to peer through binoculars to see who was passing down below. We finally reached a peak where we looked down at some much larger settlements. It was a beautifully clear spring morning.

‘
Well,’ said Sasha, ‘what you see in the distance is the border between Ukraine and Slovakia. To the right is the Ukrainian town of Uzhorod. It’s a big place and it’s right on the border. To the far left is a small Slovakian village, Vysne Nemecke. It’s a very small place, but the people around there are welcoming. You’ll need to be careful, you know that, but with luck, from there, you can travel onwards towards Germany. That’s probably the only place you’ll definitely be safe from the Soviets You just need to climb down from here and then head towards the far side of the village. Here, take this,’ he handed a piece of paper to Father, ‘it’s got the name of a contact in the Slovakian Resistance and an address where you can ask for him. His name’s Ludvik. He’s based in the mountains near the town of Presov. You’ll need to get across the border, then go west for a while and then start heading north. He’ll help you. Tell him I sent you.’

‘
Sasha,’ replied Father, stuffing the piece of paper into his pocket, ‘we can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done. I just wish we could join you. I know Stefan would like that.’

‘
If it was up to me, I’d take you straight away, just like that, of course I would, but we’re under orders. But I’ve something else for you,’ he signalled to one of the other men who walked across to us holding a shoulder bag, ‘this bag’s got a few things you might need. It’s a basic mountain survival kit.’

The bag was passed to Father who looped it over a shoulder and said, ‘Sasha, thank you. Are you sure you can spare this?’

‘
It’s yours, Mr Szpuk. I hope it helps you. I really hope you make it through and get somewhere safe.’

Then I asked a question that was burning inside me, ‘Do you think we’ll ever be able to get back home, Sasha?’ He looked at me, ‘Stefan, one day we’ll all go home. I can’t say when that’ll be. But I truly believe we will get back.’

Father shook Sasha’s hand and slapped him on the shoulder. Then, I took Sasha’s hand. He pulled me towards him, ‘Take care of yourself, Stefan. You may not be able to join us now, but I know that inside your heart you’ll be with us. And that counts. It drives us on, and makes us believe what we’re doing is right. Promise me you’ll never stop believing Ukraine will be free one day.’

‘
I promise, of course I do.’ I had to steel myself. To stop the tears from flowing. To be strong. Because strength was needed right then. We said our final goodbyes to Sasha and his men. We turned away, and walked down that hill. We walked away from our beloved Ukraine.

Chapter 8

Ukrainian proverb: The fear of death takes away the joy of living

We climbed down that hill, our heavy footsteps kicking dust into the air behind us. Everything in our world was collapsing around us, that’s how it seemed, I don’t know how we managed to stay on our feet. At the bottom, we stopped and turned around to look back up towards the ridge. There was no sign of Sasha, or his men. It was just me and Father, on our own. Sasha had looked after us as if we were family. He’d shared the sparse provisions available to him and his men, he’d given us shelter, and now we’d said goodbye to him. I wondered if I’d ever see him again. The two of us turned around again and started walking.

The morning stretched out in front of us as we made our way across a layer of rugged foothills. The Carpathian Mountains towered beside us as we continued to head west, their majestic beauty occupying the horizon to the north. The bronze terrain of the foothills snaked and spread in front of us. I don’t know exactly when we crossed the border into Slovakia, but I noticed something was different. An aroma of sweetness filled the air, a warm breeze blew around our ears, and the light was different somehow. This was how I knew we’d left Ukraine. I bowed my head. Every step was taking us further away from our home. My guts were twisting inside like water being sucked down a drain.

The next days passed by in something of a blur. We walked so far, so many miles, and I was so weary. My legs could hardly hold me up, they were like broken springs. Father led me through those foothills and deeper into Slovakian territory. Many days and nights passed with sunshine above us by day, and moonlight and stars twinkling above us in the night time. To this day, I don’t know how Father kept the two of us going. Many times he pulled me back up when I’d stumbled. Other times, he placed a strong arm around my shoulders and walked alongside me. He found us food whenever he could, and more importantly, he was able to find running water almost at will. On many occasions, he’d stop walking, crane his neck to one side and say, ‘Come on, Stefan, let’s get ourselves some water.’ Sure enough, there was always a stream nearby. We’d have a good drink and feel fresh again, even if only for a short time. Father could build a fire almost anywhere, from virtually nothing. The survival kit Sasha gave us had tinder, a flint and an army knife. That was all Father needed. In the cold darkness we’d huddle around the flickering flames and warm our bones.

There were many other lost souls wandering around, but Father and I kept ourselves away from the pack as much as we could, we tried to be invisible just as Father always said we should in the past. An endless search for food kept us occupied most of the time. By night we’d raid nearby farms and steal whatever we could, usually potatoes from storage sheds. They got roasted over a fire in the deep blackness of the night. It was never enough. I couldn’t sleep so well because of the savage hunger that gnawed away inside me. So I lay awake under the stars and, with frightening regularity, heard explosions in the distance. I prayed they wouldn’t come any closer. I saw flashes of orange and yellow dotted in the sky and a low drone from afar, sometimes closer, of what I guessed were bomber planes. I lay on the damp grass with a cocoon of black around me, with my coat collar pulled up and my hat right down over my ears, wondering when one of those bombs would land on us.

By day, we zigzagged across those mountains, Father managing to locate a route that took us north. By midday, the sun would be above us, and fortune shone down on us, because we had very little rainfall. Instead, I found myself, reluctantly, removing my coat, the heat from the sun threatening to boil me should I keep it on. I slung it over my shoulder or tied it round my waist, but in many ways was relieved when the weather cooled in the evenings, and I could put it back on. I didn’t want to lose that coat, or for it to be stolen.

Many nights were spent tucked into those cold rocks, shivering away, just waiting for morning to come. The days got warmer, and now and again we’d stop at a stream to try and catch fish with a hook and line from the bag Sasha gave us. Sometimes we caught one and I have to say that fish tasted so good when roasted over an open fire.

Our lack of proper washing facilities caused us to be covered in fleas and lice, it was impossible not to scratch ourselves as we walked along. The same clothes had been on our backs for many days, how I wished I could be back home taking a hot bath in that old tin tub in our warm kitchen, and then changing into clean clothes. I felt so grubby, but there was nothing we could do, apart from the most basic of washing in the mountain streams around us.

It was taking forever to get to Presov, until one evening, when the light was just turning, we found ourselves on the brow of a hill gazing down at a big city below us, ‘We’ve made it!’ said Father, ‘This must be Presov.’

To describe the joy I felt just then was impossible, I could have cried with laughter as we trotted down that hill. The trek through those mountains had been tough. The terrain levelled out and there were numerous smallholdings dotted around the landscape on the approach into Presov. We passed close by to one of them. A middle-aged woman stood at the front of the house, tidying her garden. Her eyes widened as she saw us coming, ‘Oh dear Lord, what have we here? You look like you’ve been crawling through a bog. Come in, come in.’ She opened that gate, and we walked in without even thinking. We slumped down on a bench at the front of the house. She brought us each a large glass of milk, ‘Dear, oh dear. You look like you’ve been to Hell and back. Well, my daughter’s visiting her grandmother in the town and is staying there until tomorrow, so you’re welcome to sleep in her room tonight. You look as though you need a good night’s sleep. Tell me, where are you from?’

‘
We’re from Ukraine,’ replied Father, ‘I’m Mikola and this is Stefan, my son. The Soviets were driving towards the west so the Nazis threw us all out into the streets as they retreated. They destroyed whole villages; Ukraine is like a burnt-out shell. It’s been blasted to pieces by both the Soviets and the Nazis. We’ve walked so many miles since then, so many I can’t begin to think how far we’ve come.’

‘
Well, I’m Sara. Come inside and meet my husband and son.’

We followed her into the house and exchanged handshakes with her husband, Kazimir, and her son, Tomas. They’d been out at work on their smallholding and were getting cleaned up in the kitchen. There was a large stove, similar to our own back home and a large wooden table with chairs arranged around it. It was warm, and there was an aroma of cooking. I was reminded of my Mother. In the flickering shadows on the wall next to the stove I could see her. Moving in flowing, graceful curves, standing over a steaming pan, stirring. That’s what I missed.

Sara took us upstairs to her daughter’s bedroom. She swung the door open and a dazzling sight was there before us. The room was like a palace. There was a double bed with sumptuous, wine coloured, satin sheets. The floor was covered with a thick, brown carpet that looked good enough to sleep on. The windows were framed by luscious curtains of a golden hue. There was a beautiful dressing table and stool, constructed of a deep mahogany. There were cushions of a bewildering range of colours strewn across the bed. I stepped forward, but Father raised an arm to stop me,

‘
Sara, we can’t sleep in this room. Just look at us. We’re filthy; we’ve got lice and fleas all over us. We haven’t washed for days. Please, just let us sleep in your barn. That’ll be fine for us.’

Sara nodded, her cheeks reddening a little, ‘Yes, yes. Well, maybe you’re right. Okay, you two rest up in the barn for a while and then I’ll heat up some water so you can get yourselves cleaned up. I’m making some soup for supper. You’re welcome to have some with us once you've both had a rest and got yourselves cleaned up.’

The hay in the barn was fresh and we lay down on it. Before long I was in my own land of dreams. I stirred a short time later that evening, feeling refreshed, but with an emptiness inside – I was hungry. Father woke up at the same time and, after a good scrub down in the yard, we joined Sara and her family in their farmhouse. Kazimir poured Father glass after glass of
samohonka
*, a powerful home brewed spirit. There was buttered bread and a delicious bowl of
borsch
*. There were pickles, there was cheese and a few slices of ham. We ate well, and sang a few songs. Father looked so much better having had a good wash. It was good to feel clean. To rejoice in our freedom and in life itself at that moment was only right, I couldn’t think about the future. I marvelled at Sara and Kazimir. They could’ve let us pass by their home without a word. They didn’t know who we were, we could’ve been bandits or thieves. They showed us so much warmth and kindness, and welcomed us into their home and fed us. It showed me there was some good in the world despite the terrors heaped on us by the Soviets and the Nazis.

Father told them of our lives. About all manner of things. The war, life in general, all about how our life had been in Ukraine. They listened to him attentively, Father always had the gift to tell a story. They laughed as he told them tales about the absurdity of the Soviet collective farming scheme. But then, their jaws dropped when he gave them his account of the famine in the early thirties.

We slept in the barn again that night. It was warm and dry, much better than sleeping in fields or hedgerows, or in between the cold, hard rocks in the mountains. Father nodded off quickly, the effects of the drink maybe. I lay awake for a while, listening to booms and whistles in the distance. Now and again, there were flashes of light. It was raging all around us, and getting closer, or so it seemed.

The next morning, we had a good wash down again and I felt much better. Sara cooked up some eggs for our breakfast. As we ate, Father showed Sara the piece of paper with the address on it.

‘
Ah, yes. I know this place,’ she said, ‘it’s right on the other side of the town, just as it starts to get mountainous again.’

Over a final steaming cup of coffee, Father told them more about our life back home, all about our smallholding and the land we had. Kazimir and Father entered into a lengthy discussion about crop rotation, while I sat and thought about Mother. Would I see her again? Sara reminded me so much of her. I longed for that touch. That softness. There is no love like that of one’s mother.

It was soon time to leave, we needed to make an early start to continue our search for Ludvik, the leader of the Slovakian Resistance. Sara packed us up with some buttered bread and some slices of
kobasa
*. Kazimir and Father shook hands firmly. Sara gave me a big hug, and once again I was reminded of Mother.

We thanked her for her hospitality and said our goodbyes, to her, and to Kazimir and Tomas. They were truly like rays of light in a dark hole. For an evening, and those few hours in the morning we found an oasis that gave us life and fresh hope.

Feeling much stronger we made our way into the town, with a spring sun throwing ripples of warmth upon us. The main street was lined with the most magnificent churches. There were so many twisted spires and elegant turrets, and so many simply beautiful stained glass windows. We gazed in wonder at them as we passed, and I could have sworn I felt a presence walking with us through that street. Now and again, I felt an icy cold grip on my arm. It happened two or three times, and it scared me. It made me keep my wits about me. We walked right through those streets. Neither of us wanted to stop.

‘
Stefan, I really hope Ludvik can help us get safe passage to Germany,’ he looked once again at the piece of paper given to us by Sasha, ‘we need to find this tavern, called Slavia.’ I marvelled at the way Father navigated his way through those streets. He stopped to ask people directions when he needed to and struck up many conversations. Father spoke a few different languages, and consequently he could make himself understood to anyone, or so it seemed. He had an ability to connect with people, and an instinct which he used so well. Somehow he knew who to speak to, and who to avoid. Eventually, without too much trouble, we found the place.

It was a three storey building with a cream-coloured frontage, with elegant, arched windows and a roof pitched at a low angle. It looked inviting. Father and I crossed the road and pushed the door open. Inside was a bar area with tables and chairs on one side and an open area to the other. A man sat in a corner of the room with an accordion, playing a slow melody, while a lone couple waltzed across the floor. There was an array of mirrors behind the bar, and shelves full of polished glasses. There were one or two bottles dotted around on the shelves, and not much else. The landlord looked across at us and came out from behind the bar, pressing his greased black hair over his scalp and smoothing down his moustache, ‘Hello, welcome to Slavia.’ He wiped a hand on his apron before extending it to Father. They shook hands.

‘
Can I get you anything?’ Before we could reply, two men stepped from behind a pillar and pushed the landlord out of the way. One of them, a thick set fellow with a wide face and beard growth, and with a cap pulled down low over his dark eyes, looked us up and down, ‘You’re strangers, what do you want here?’

‘
W-we’re looking for a man called Ludvik,’ replied Father.

The man cuffed Father with the back of his hand sending him sprawling against the entrance door, ‘Ludvik, eh? What do you want with him?’

Father staggered forward rubbing the side of his face with one hand and pulling the piece of paper from his pocket with the other, ‘Here, we’ve got an introduction from a mutual friend.’