There were shouts, slams and bangs throughout the house, and Mother’s voice carried upstairs. ‘Marishu, what are you doing up there? Make haste; we’re ready to leave. This instant. Did you hear me?’
‘I heard you.’ Dragging my eiderdown from the bed, I grabbed my pillows and closed the holdall.
Stepping out onto the landing, I caught my father, out of earshot of the Ruskies, talking with Mother. He said, ‘The way those three are behaving, it wouldn’t surprise me if we never see this place again.’ Mother agreed with him and said that was why she worried about the food situation. They looked up when the floorboards creaked and said no more.
It had stopped snowing when I stepped out onto the porch, but the wind that had been blowing down from Siberia all winter knifed through the hood of my coat. The familiar trace of pig manure hung in the air, and the tin bath that lived on the hook outside our kitchen door sparkled diamond-bright with frost. My parents’ words haunted me. ‘Never come back?’ How could this be true? Why? The possibility terrified me, threw me off balance; it was unthinkable that I would never see Wanda and Jusio again. No! My parents had to be wrong. This was my home. I didn’t know anywhere else.
The blue light of the moon shone on the roofs of our farm buildings and the line of poplar trees beyond. A loaded cart stood nearby carrying our essentials; its horse, motionless.
I was unsure how I felt about this train journey. Of course I would go anywhere my parents led, but the thought of stepping into the unknown scared me because trains were not for people like us. Sometimes I loitered by the tracks in Zhabinka and watched them pull out of the station, imagining all their unknown destinations, leaving my father to barter over a heifer or two he had brought to market. This was my world; it was safe – except now it wasn’t. Why wouldn’t Peaked Cap tell Tatta where he was taking us?
All around me startled chickens sat on upturned pails and wheelbarrows, watching us leave. Szatan’s lusty crowing didn’t help either. They would freeze if no one shooed them back into the henhouse.
I watched the Scruffy One grab a squawking hen, its wings flapping in terror. He held it upside down by its feet, placed his thumb under its throat, clicked its head back and the hen flopped, no longer struggling, its brain and spine severed. He flung the carcass onto the cart, no doubt thinking about his dinner later, and saw me watching. His eyes dared me to say anything. I didn’t, but that chicken was ours – it was coming with us. It was our food.
Somewhere on the farm, a door swung back and forth on rusty hinges, smacking against a wall. We brought all our animals indoors to overwinter, and they were sitting in their straw-cushioned sheds that Tatta had reinforced with an assortment of nails, screws and wire. Only the cattle enjoyed the luxury of a brick cow shed – made from bricks Karol and I had shaped by hand; it took us ages.
I yawned so hard that my jaw almost locked. At this hour, in the middle of winter, I was fast asleep. All this commotion distressed my cows; I could hear their sombre dirge rising from the cow shed. It was like a funeral cry, and it upset me. Who would do the milking? What was about to happen around here that demanded we abandon our home and animals with such speed?
Within minutes everyone was piling out of the house. Lodzia was on the cart, entertaining Ella with her little rag jester, jingling the bells on its pointy hat.
Mother stepped down from the porch, crying. She had never owned a coat but swaddled herself in layers of thick shawls. The warm woollen leg-bands she had wrapped around her feet and legs were visible between the hem of her sturdy long skirt and the tops of her valenki, and she had knotted multiple floral woollen headscarves beneath her chin.
Karol appeared, carrying something strung up in a sheet. He smirked to himself as he placed it on top of the cart. I knew what it was; it was his precious bike. It lived in his bedroom to ensure I wouldn’t use it – as was often my fancy. It was a wonder the Soviets hadn’t noticed, but I didn’t snitch.
Gerhard staggered out with Father’s box of shoemaking paraphernalia. Why is he bringing that thing, I wondered? Surely our boots won’t wear out in a month.
Peaked cap and the Swarthy One followed Father out and pulled the door shut.
‘Come on, kohanie,’ Tatta put his arm on my shoulder, and gave the house one last glance as if saying goodbye. ‘Time to leave.’
With that glance, I knew that my parents had lost everything they had ever possessed.
So began our 9km trek to Zhabinka Railway Station. In that dead hour, everything felt so weird. In my head it was like a dream – but the truth was we were leaving.
Peaked Cap gave the signal – the Scruffy One slapped the whip – and the horse moved. Bookiet, eager to begin his adventure, trotted alongside.
‘Clear off!’ bellowed Peaked Cap, but Bookiet jumped onto the cart, his legs splayed to maintain his balance.
The Swarthy One grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and flung him to the ground.
Bookiet whimpered, yelped and scrambled to get to his feet.
Mother and Lodzia spun around.
Before anyone could do anything, the Swarthy One aimed and fired.
I heard the rifle crack – then an instantaneous, pitiful yelp, and I watched Bookiet’s blood seep into the snow. My hysterical screams echoed into the night, but my father gripped my arm. I wanted to run and help my dog and strained to escape his grasp, but he tightened his hold. I glanced into his eyes and saw the pain there, but he drew me into his arms and held me tight.
‘Leave him, child. Perhaps it’s best this way; he didn’t suffer.’
‘Yes, but I saw his leg twitching He needs us.’
‘He’s dead. Come on – leave him. It’s no use.’
I couldn’t stop wailing. None of it made sense. ‘Why did they have to kill him?’
‘Because they are evil.’ He ran the heel of his hand across his cheek, glared at the Ruskies, and turned away. ‘Poor Bookiet, but you mustn’t dwell on it. He’s gone.’
This nightmare was getting worse. Fear mixed with grief in my belly and I stumbled ahead with my father’s arm around my shoulders. However, it didn’t stop me feeling anything but loathing for these odious brutes.
Mother, Lodzia and little Ella sobbed. Gerhard and Karol walked in seething silence on the opposite side. The other two followed the cart; the militiaman with his rifle slung over his shoulder on a piece of string, and Peaked Cap with his pistol at the ready. Who were they planning to shoot next, I wondered?
3
Five minutes down the lane, I paused and glanced back. Bookiet wasn’t following, and our home appeared more forsaken with each step we took. Everything I had ever loved and everything I had ever known was there. In springtime, it was a haven of apple blossom, nesting storks and croaking frogs. Now everything had changed. My dog was lying injured in the snow, his precious life ebbing away. He trusted us to rush back and help him, but we couldn’t. We had to abandon him because of these killers. I hated feeling like this.
The moon reflecting on the snow had transformed the countryside into a forbidding icescape. As it slipped down into the western sky the profile of our farm stood out against the moon, our poor animals trapped in their sheds and abandoned to starve. A tiny light glowed at my bedroom window, imploring us to return. Too late, I thought, I forgot to snuff out the lamp.
All at once, the protective blanket of my entire world was being ripped asunder, and I realised my life would never be the same. I couldn’t bear it and turned away, my childhood over.