Sliding on the Snow Stone (18 page)

Ivan showed me around the rest of his land. He had fields just next to the perimeter of the farmyard, big enough to plant wheat or corn to keep a family in bread for a whole year. Beyond those fields was lush green pasture. To one side of the farm, near the kitchen, was a walled area. Ivan opened a door and we stepped inside. We were inside an orchard; there were about two dozen apple trees, some with fruit that was ripe, others were bare, but there also two big storage crates overflowing with apples in a corner of the orchard. I breathed in an aroma of acid sweetness that made my mouth water.

‘
You see, Stefan, we have everything here.’ He waved me across to a door on the far side of the orchard and opened it, revealing an impressive expanse of land, which had separate plots, each dug over, and some with green shoots bursting through from a late crop. Ivan handed me a spade and grabbed one himself. We made our way over to the far side of the plot and spent an hour or so digging over a plot ready for more planting, for crops that would be harvested before the frosts came. After that, Ivan asked me to take his cows over to the pasture land. I was happy to do so, because I loved cows. They never ceased to amaze me. They were so big, so ungainly, but my, what wonders they produced! All that creamy milk, which could be churned for butter, or made into cheese. And all that just by eating grass. Incredible.

Next to the farmhouse was a pig pen and a chicken shed also. Ivan and Marina had plenty to keep them busy, and I was only too happy to help them out.

One day stretched into another and then a week went by, and then another. I settled into living with Ivan and Marina, and they treated me like a son.

We filled a need in each other, and plugged something of a hole. A big hole in my case. I still couldn’t quite believe that Father was dead. Many times I lay awake at night and, as I dozed, I’d hear him. I saw him. He was in my head, as clear as day. It was like watching a film: The flints would strike each other and then there were sparks. One, two and then a third strike, sometimes more, and then came flames and a feeling of warmth. I’d wake up with sweat pouring off me. Without Father, I’d have been dead long ago.

So, I’d get up in the mornings, having slept badly, but restless, wanting to get out of the house and do something. I’d shuffle and fidget over breakfast. I’d rock in my chair as I bit into my bread and butter and gulped down my milk. Ivan got me out in the fields. They needed their soil turning over for the winter crop of potatoes, cabbages and other vegetables. I’d never used a plough before. I stood with him and looked at it as he explained to me its workings. Next thing I knew I was there with two horses in front of me, trying to get the plough running straight. It was hard work, but that suited me. I wanted to work myself hard, so that I’d just drop. I ran that plough up and down, in wavy lines, in straight lines sometimes. It didn’t matter, as long as the ground got turned over. Once finished, I handed the plough over to Ivan and I stood, dripping with sweat. He patted me on the back, ‘Well done, Stefan! You’re a good worker, come on, that’s enough for today, let’s go and get cleaned up.’

That’s how I lived at that time. I worked like a madman. It was a wonder my arms and legs didn’t drop off. At the end of each day, Ivan put an arm around my shoulders and we walked back to the farmhouse with the autumn sun blazing gold on the horizon. A glass of cool milk later and I was refreshed. Marina’s cooking was wholesome and I ate plenty.

In the evenings we listened to the radio. It was just like being back home, it was exactly the same model as Father’s. It coughed and spluttered as it tried to catch a signal. Whenever we did manage to tune into a station, the news was always the same.

War was raging all around us. Millions had died, and hundreds more every day. Somehow, right there, in that part of Slovakia, we seemed to be in something of a cocoon. There was very little bombing around there, and not much of a military presence. Ivan drummed his fingers on the table as he listened to the broadcasts. Marina clasped her hands together. I could feel the tension. After all, they had a lot to lose. And they had their sons to think about. I often caught Marina looking at those pictures on the wall with an expression on her face that betrayed her longing to see her boys back home. Marina was never still. Even when the dinner was simmering gently on the stove she’d be pacing about, muttering to herself. This is what the war did to all of us, it tore our hearts and our souls to shreds, it drove a bloody wedge through families, caught between fighting for different causes. Caught between trying to fight a battle or just to survive.

It was a miracle that Ivan and Marina took me in. They saved me. Lord knows, I would have ended up in a ditch somewhere, with just the worms for company if Ivan hadn’t rescued me. That was why I worked so hard for them. And the work suited me, it stopped me from thinking too much.

One day, I got up after another unsettled night of dreams. I breakfasted and tore around the smallholding, busying myself with feeding the chickens and the pigs. When I came back inside to see where Ivan was, things were different. He was wearing a suit, his hair was combed into a neat parting, and he was standing in front of a mirror, fastening a necktie, ‘Stefan, it’s market day today. I’m going into the village, and you can come with me. Get yourself cleaned up and Marina will find you some clean clothes.’

I scrubbed myself down and put on a crisp white shirt that was just a touch too big for me. I threw on a black jacket that was, again, for someone of greater proportions, but I didn’t care. I liked to look smart. Marina handed me a pair of pressed grey trousers, they were a good fit, but I slipped braces onto them anyway to make sure they stayed up. A quick wash down, a comb through my hair and I was all ready. Ivan had already loaded up a small wagon with milk, butter, eggs, cheese and a few boxes of apples that were ripe, so we set off.

It was a crisp, autumn morning. Birds sang and the trees on the leaves shimmered and billowed in the breeze, with lush shades of red and gold around us. The click clack of the horses’ hooves on the road, and the rumble of the wheels as they turned on that uneven track combined together to make a background rhythm that somehow felt just right. It was good to be moving, to be going somewhere. The breeze blew my hair back, and I enjoyed that wind on my face. I listened as Ivan chattered away next to me, telling me all about his family and his friends in the village, but, in some ways, it was hard for me to take in. I missed my own family and friends so much. I drifted off into my own daydreams. The Kozaks came into my mind. They always did when I needed to feed some fire into my soul. A swirling, heady melody played in my head as the Kozaks charged at their enemy. They must have been a fearsome sight, hurtling at their enemy on their horses with their
sharivari
* tucked into their boots, billowing wildly in the breeze like the sails of a ship, with their
hohol
* flowing from their shaved heads and with whiskers like those of a beast. They fixed their eyes on the quivering soldiers that had been sent to face them and roared as they charged. No wonder many of the enemy turned and fled. But the Kozaks weren’t around anymore. We Ukrainians needed to find another way to fight our battles.

About half an hour later, Ivan and I arrived at the village square which was overflowing with people. We parked up next to an empty stall and climbed down from the wagon. We looked around at the market which was already busy. All manner of items were being traded. Many different foods were available, some of them still alive, like plump, fine looking chickens. There were various jars of pickles and jams. And some fresh vegetables also. There was fine, embroidered cloth, and religious paintings. There were tea sets and trinkets from faraway lands. Even with bombs crashing down to earth nearby and bomber planes droning in the distance, people still met up to trade with each other.

Ivan and I were kept busy. Everyone wanted the goods we were selling, they were basic foodstuffs after all. Within an hour or so, we’d sold everything and Ivan counted up. He slipped me a couple of
korunas
, which was generous. ‘You’ve been a great help to us these past two weeks, so you deserve that. Come on, let’s have a look around, you might want to get something for yourself.’

We wandered around, and the two
korunas
jangled in my pocket. Ivan stopped to look at some tools, so I carried on walking. I reached a stall where an elderly woman was selling wooden carvings and painted eggs. On one of the higher shelves I spotted something and I picked it up. It was a wooden cross, about eight inches in length, and four inches across. It was beautifully engraved with a traditional pattern. The woman accepted my two
korunas
for it and I slipped it into my bag before Ivan should see it. My intention was to give it to him and Marina for looking after me.

‘
Stefan, come on.’ Ivan appeared from a corner of the stall and beckoned me towards him. ‘There’s some entertainment being put on by a good friend of mine in a field near here.’

I followed him out of the market and we walked a few streets until we reached a narrow track. There were several large barns either side of us as we walked along a well trodden path to a gate. A man stood at the entrance. Ivan handed him some coins as admission for the two of us and we walked into the field. There was a large crowd in the middle, all men, and as we got closer to them, we were hit by waves of noise, by a burning intensity, by the smell of money and by a buzz of anticipation.

Two stalls were set out. One sold shots of home-made plum
horilka
, the other was taking bets. I stood back as Ivan quickly carried out a transaction with the man who was taking bets, I didn’t know what he was betting on, I didn’t really know what was happening, but it was a party atmosphere and I could feel myself melting into the energy and euphoria around me. Ivan bought us each a shot of the plum
horilka
. I threw it back and it stung on the way down. We had another one and then Ivan said,

‘
Well, Stefan, now you’re really going to see how we live here in Slovakia!’

The crowd of men all turned and rushed towards an adjoining field, Ivan and I joined them. There were two paddocks on opposite sides of the field and I swallowed hard when I saw what was in them. There were a pair of full grown bulls, stamping and scraping the ground in front of them with their hooves. They were like mountains of muscle on four legs, with horns that could cut a man in half. Each of those bulls had two men handling it, trying to control it.

Someone waved a white handkerchief in the air and a pair of men rushed to each of the paddocks and pulled the gates open. The bulls charged out into the field and stopped. They stared at each other and paced in semi-circles. The sun was setting and a chill wind was whipping across the plain, but none of us felt that. With the plum
horilka
inside us and a pair of mighty bulls facing each other, about to do battle, we were full of fire.

One of the bulls reared up, thrust its horns forward and charged. The other one did the same and we watched as they pounded towards each other, dust kicking up in the air as they charged. Seconds later, there was a thud that vibrated through the ground right underneath us all, as the bulls locked horns. They slammed into each other, over and over again. Each time they smashed into each other the crowd roared. The force of each hit was like a bomb blast. It reverberated all around us. We watched as one of the bulls began to buckle, with its knees wobbling and its head sagging. The dominant one sensed this quickly and surged forward, its horns powering into its foe, digging in, sending its opponent crashing to the floor with a resounding whack that juddered through the earth. We all felt it. Several men sprang forward to get the winner away. They herded it back to its paddock. Meanwhile, the defeated bull was revived and soon up on its feet.

Ivan collected his winnings. We stayed around for a few more drinks, and then staggered and swayed back to where we’d left our horse and cart. We meandered home in the little light that was left. We woke up the next day feeling a little sore in the head. Over breakfast I gave the wooden cross to Marina to thank her and Ivan for everything they’d done for me. Marina was delighted and the cross was soon mounted in a suitable position in the kitchen.

We reached the middle of October 1944, and winter was getting closer by the day. The work on Ivan’s farm became heavier, we worked from early dawn to dusk, but Marina fed us well, and I began to get my strength back. In the evenings we listened to the radio. The Soviets were still pushing west, driving the Nazis back. Surely it wouldn’t be long before they crossed over the border into Slovakia to take what they needed for their war machine. There was a tension in the air as the three of us listened to the broadcasts.

A week or so later I was in the orchard after breakfast. I plucked an apple from a tree and pulled my pocket knife from my bag to cut slices from it. The crisp, sweet flesh just about dissolved in my mouth. It was a slice of Heaven.

Suddenly, there was the sound of an engine and the skid of rubber on dewy grass. I peered through the crack in the door and saw a Slovak police car parked outside the farmhouse. A pair of armed policemen jumped out and ran up to the door. Ivan was already there, ‘What is the problem, officers? How can I help you?’

One of them pushed past him and went into the farmhouse while the other looked Ivan up and down, ‘We’re looking for vagrants! Anyone who’s travelling without papers. We’ve been ordered to arrest them and keep them at the police station.’