Sliding on the Snow Stone (4 page)

He took a few breaths and raised his head. Clearly, he was struggling to speak, but he eventually blurted out, ‘They’ve taken him. They’ve taken my father.’

There was a stunned silence for a few seconds, but as soon as he said those words I had an idea what may have happened. He carried on, ‘Last night they came for him. Soviet soldiers. There must have been about ten of them. I was in bed, almost asleep when I heard noises. So I went downstairs, and I heard them say it, Stefan, I heard them.’

He was talking about a phrase every Ukrainian dreaded:

Without right of correspondence.

The scholars, the educated, the successful, or anyone who spoke out against Soviet rule was taken away, and their families were denied contact. None came back. It was never made clear what happened to them, and no information was given by the Soviets. But we knew only too well where they were taken. There was a park in the town where the Soviets had built a compound with a 12-foot high wooden fence. The compound was guarded by armed soldiers. We boys went down there many times to observe. Nearby was a tree that we climbed up. We couldn’t see into the compound from the tree, but we got a better view of the comings and goings. It also concealed us from the soldiers. On many occasions we saw people escorted in there under armed guard. A period of time later the Soviets would start up several vehicles within the compound. The engines made a terrific amount of noise - enough to drown out the sound of rifle fire. We never saw any of the people escorted in there come back out.

Sasha’s father was a hard worker; he’d managed his land well, so much so that he acquired a few more acres over the years. He employed several of the local peasants on his land and was a well-liked, successful farmer. Until the time came when the Soviets decided on collectivisation, and then most of his land was taken from him. It must have been a shock to him. At first, he reacted in the same way as everyone else, by keeping quiet. To speak out against the Soviets, to make a fuss in any way was a death sentence, so people held back. Tongues didn’t wag and people’s mouths stayed zipped up tight. Sasha’s father must have finally lost his patience and said or done something, but we didn’t know what it was he might have done. We just knew he’d been taken away.

‘
I’ll kill them! I swear I’ll kill them all. I’ll go down to their compound and burn it down!’ Sasha stopped crying and was shaking.

I looked around and saw that, for once, Volodimir had dragged himself out of bed and was approaching and I was glad about that. Straight away Volodimir realised that Sasha was in some distress. I quickly told him what had happened, as much as I knew anyway. Volodimir put an arm round Sasha’s shoulders. Tears started to flow again.

‘
Sasha. I know you want to fight them, but if you go down to that compound you’ll just get shot and that’ll be that.’ Volodimir tried to reason with Sasha.

‘
I’ve lost my father. He’s gone. They’ve killed him.’ Sasha collapsed in a heap by the roadside and lay there sobbing. Volodimir and I looked at each other. We’d lost many friends and relatives over the years, but to lose your own father was something you just didn’t even want to think about.

Sometimes I think we grew up too fast. I was seven, Volodimir was nine, and Sasha was 11. The things we’d seen and the world we lived in were too terrible for children. Sasha was the oldest child in his family and he would now be the head of the house. It was all wrong. His father hadn’t done anything to anybody. He hadn’t stolen anything or mistreated anyone. The Soviets were merciless. If you disagreed with them, they got rid of you. Not only that, they wiped away all trace of you, as if you never existed.

We gathered ourselves together and carried on walking. None of us said very much. Well, what could you say? The day passed by in something of a haze. We were all in shock I guess. Sasha didn’t say much all day, and at the end of school, as we all walked home; he stormed off with his head down. We let him go, but we hoped he’d be all right.

Later that night I was lying in bed just dozing. I was nearly asleep, when I heard a noise. It was coming from the window. It sounded like a spray of small stones clattering onto the glass. Volodimir was already asleep, so I jumped out of bed. I threw the window open and poked my head out. I looked down into the darkness, but I couldn’t see anything and screwed up my eyes to try and focus. I saw a blurred pair of arms waving at me and looked harder until I made out a face in the darkness, ‘Sasha! What are you doing here at this time?’

‘
Stefan, I’ve come to let you know I’m leaving.’

‘
What?’

‘
I’ve got to get out of here, before they come for me. I know I won’t be able to keep my mouth shut. One day, and it could be any day, might even be tomorrow, I’ll say something against them and they’ll find out. They’ll take me away, just like they took my father. I can’t live like this. I’m going west, to the mountains. I’m going to join the Resistance. We have to fight back. I just know this is what I have to do. Wish me luck.’ He turned away before I could say anything and ran off into the black curtain of the night, but I wished him luck all the same.

We’d heard many stories about the Resistance. They were a band of men living in the Carpathian Mountains, fighting for a free Ukraine, taking on our old enemies, the Poles and the Soviets.

I didn’t know what to think. I closed the window and got back into bed. I lay there for a while thinking about Sasha. Part of me envied him. He was off on a big adventure, but he was leaving everything behind. He was going into the unknown, and that was something I was uneasy about. Even though the Soviets mistreated us and were trying to destroy us, or so it seemed, I loved the place where I lived. Okay, our house wasn’t the biggest around but it was enough for us. I had my family. My grandmother on my mother’s side lived in the next village. We saw a lot of her. We had many friends in our neighbourhood, it was a real community. There were good and bad things about it, but it was where I belonged.

Father came from Stanislaviv, further west. Sometimes we’d go and visit his sisters over there, but I was always glad when we came back. I didn’t know what to make of what was happening to us all. Sasha had run away, that’s how bad it had become. It seemed like my whole world was always in some sort of turmoil. Eventually, I managed to drift off to sleep again.

The next day I was on my way to school again. It was another bright sunny day. I was just strolling along when I got to the junction where I’d met up with Sasha the day before. My thoughts turned to him and I hoped he was okay. He’d done the right thing in my eyes. Sasha was a true Kozak, ready to fight at any time and tough as they come. And he liked to say what was in his head and in his heart. That was a problem, and that’s why it was better that he’d gone.

The Soviets were a cunning lot. They infiltrated our community. There were boys in the school who were new to the village, and they didn’t really mix. We didn’t trust them, so we kept our distance. Something wasn’t quite right about them. Often we’d see them hanging around on the fringes of our group trying to listen in to what was being said. We kept away from them and certainly didn’t say anything to them, but their eyes followed us everywhere.

And there were also plenty of uniformed Soviet Secret Police officers around, but it was the plain clothes ones you really had to watch out for. They stood in doorways swallowed up in dark shadows, and they watched every move we made. Every word we spoke could have been used against us. We learned to keep our mouths shut, and we changed our language in the way we spoke. We used a mix of lots of different dialects to confuse them. I don’t know if it worked but, anyway, most of the time, we were out in the woods or in the fields playing football or running races. We had to escape. That’s what they did to us. They carved us up. Divided us. They made it so that no one spoke to their neighbour for fear of Soviet reprisal. Anyone could be listening and whoever we mixed with could be a Soviet informer. We couldn’t trust a soul and quickly learnt to keep quiet. It was as if there was a deafening shroud of silence hanging over us. Engulfing us and suffocating us.

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.