The snowstorm last night had left a white, silent world. Violent eddies of air swept down between the shacks, throwing drifts against anything in the way, camouflaging trees and the river bank. Mother swaddled me in so many scarves that I could barely turn my head.
It was nearly five o’clock and Gerhard was impatient, waiting for me on the porch step. ‘Are you coming or what?’
Lodzia waved us off. ‘Good luck, you poor thing. Hope they put you in Gerhard’s brigade. Fingers crossed.’
Mother stood by, looking worried.
‘I doubt it,’ Gerhard said. ‘My brigade is already a foursome.’
Raising my hand in farewell, we headed off to the Artel. The fresh snow had not yet crusted, but the sky threatened more snow. Stefan waved and wished me luck as he made off with another group. I had visions of working next to him on an adjoining poloska, and we could perhaps meet up. My other assumption that they would place me with Gerhard or another established brigade was also wrong. I was part of a fresh one. There were four of us. Luiza, subdued and bereaved – the eldest at twenty eight, who had lost her remaining child the previous week; Rysiek, an over-zealous teenager, singled out as the brigade’s feller, and Helenka, who was about the same age as I was. We were all novices.
The overseer first drove home the prize of meeting our ‘norms’, and the consequences of not doing so, which he spelt out to us in a way we all understood: ‘If anyone of you cannot meet your ‘norms’, we will cut the wages of your entire brigade. And remember, he who does not work, does not eat.’
Norms, flaming norms; I was already sick of the word. Luiza mumbled something about, ‘Good – and the sooner we’re all dead, the better.’ I didn’t know if I should comfort her or abandon her to her grief.
With our production targets drummed into our heads, we set off deep into the forest, our journey eased by the compacted path of snow provided by those who had gone before. Stefan’s party headed in the opposite direction.
The overseer led the way with his lantern aloft. We followed in single file, listening to the sounds of our laboured breathing and the distant call of wolves.
By the time we reached the Levashka River, streaks of orange slashed the eastern sky beyond the treetops. I froze. It never occurred to me we had to cross water. The overseer went first and the other three followed. I remained. This rickety bridge must be the one my father described, supported on three enormous log stacks piled onto the riverbed. There were no handrails, and the surface was uneven and icy. Beneath it, the river rampaged on its journey to join the Vaymuga.
Having held up everyone for long enough, the overseer threatened to throw me into the Black Hole if I didn’t make haste. Aware of the others egging me on, I stepped onto it, but all I could think was, damn, I’m scared. My legs were flagging. I held out my arms to maintain my balance, blocking out all sound, aware only of my breath labouring in and out of my lungs at gasping intervals. I put another foot forward, concentrating on finding a plank, rather than a gap or a chunk of ice. The relief I felt on reaching the other side was immense.
Onwards we trudged through the trees, our passage lit by rays of sun too weak to warm. Arriving at our poloska, which was a chunk of the forest no different from the rest, the overseer exposed the extent of our site and told us to await our instructor. Experienced brigades toiled on nearby workstations, watched over by a guard, snug in his long woollen coat and peaked cap. Working at a hastened yet practised pace, trees were coming down everywhere.
There were places where bonfires were burning, and I assumed it was so workers could thaw themselves out if they became too cold to work, but no one was dawdling; there was no time to sit, smoke a cigarette or to take in the scenery. Work was progressing at an alarming rate. We had already crossed areas of bald landscape where it seemed as if a swarm of termites had chewed their way through the forest.
At our feet lay a dead tree, its massive splayed roots protruding like the petrified claws of a giant prehistoric bird. I swept the snow from its trunk and sat down. Are we expected to chop this lot down, I wondered; the task seemed insurmountable. ‘What do we do about these fallen trees,’ I asked? Many lay strewn across our site; others leaned higgledy-piggledy against the branches of neighbouring trees.
Assuming responsibility, Rysiek said, ‘Take them down first, I suppose. We can’t get at the other trees until we get these dead ones out of the way.’ He smiled to himself. ‘I think we’re lucky, we won’t have any problem meeting our norms. All we have to do is saw these up and stack them. What a doddle.’
Our optimism was short-lived when the instructor arrived.
‘First,’ he said, ‘not all trees are equal. Your job is to select only the best trees for felling. Old ones, such as these,’ he kicked the one on which I sat, and I shot to my feet, ‘are of no use. At some point, storms have toppled them and they are already in the process of decay. They are fit only for firewood, and you should first move them out of the way. Time spent removing these does not count towards your norms.
‘The ‘Dziesiatnik’ in charge of production will be round later in the afternoon to measure what you have produced. Here,’ he said, handing Rysiek a candle and some matches, ‘I presume you know how to build a fire? There are plenty of rotting trees. Build it slowly. If it goes out, go to one of the other poloskas and light a branch from theirs.’
We watched him walk away to another workstation, and I turned to Rysiek, ‘So, this will be a doddle will it?’
We set to work. This morning’s fresh covering of snow was a nuisance, but nothing a young, vibrant team like ours couldn’t handle. We had ‘norms’ to meet – no point dallying. However, as I soon discovered, the snow concealed rocks, undergrowth and brambles, and my knitted mittens offered no protection when the thorns pierced my flesh and soon became sodden. Removing the leaning trees also presented problems. Somehow, when shaken or hauled, they fell in all directions, and we had to get out of their path. Dragging those, even partially trapped beneath others, was much harder than we ever imagined.
‘God, I’m sweating.’ I removed one of my scarves and threw back my hood.
Rysiek sawed up one of the fallen trees. ‘Right, let’s drag a piece each to that clearing over there, and I’ll make a start on the bonfire.’
‘No, look, let’s leave the fallen trees for the time being,’ I suggested. ‘I think we should make a start on chopping down some fresh ones. Otherwise, we’ll never meet our norms.’
Rysiek thought about it, agreed, and as the feller of the brigade, he set about hacking away at the wet wood of a healthy tree, in a V formation as the instructor had shown him to do. He didn’t get far before he needed a rest. We girls came to his rescue, and with frozen hands, we finished what he had begun, oblivious to a guard who, with arms akimbo, stood watching our performance on the sloping ground nearby. It was only later that I spotted him.
Soon the mighty fir was whooshing to the ground, sending up a flurry of snow as it landed. Helenka and I hacked off the branches; Luiza marked off the lengths and set about sawing them into logs while Rysiek dragged the branches to the clearing to make a start on the bonfire.
Half an hour later, I went to see what was keeping him. He’d lost the candle and was messing about, moaning he had to fetch more burning branches from another bonfire and they kept going out before he got back – what a drip!
I helped with some small piles of rotted bark and soon a grand fire was warming our cheeks.