Father doubted it would do any good, reasoning, ‘What if you fail, son? Then we’ll have lost our money?’
‘But, Tatta, what good’s the money without the travel document? Please let him try. They’ve had plenty of time to find our papers; something must be wrong.’ I thought it a fantastic idea.
Father glanced at Mother.
Mother shrugged and nodded. ‘Marisha’s right.’
A week later, Karol walked through the door, triumphantly shaking our travel document. He had all three of us instantly on our feet. ‘They had no intention of freeing us,’ he said.
‘Karol, this is brilliant!’ Father took the paper and scanned it. ‘Well done, son!’
Mother ran to hug him. ‘Kohanie, this is such a relief. Thank you, thank you so much.’
Overjoyed, I snatched it from Tatta. ‘Let me see it. When can we leave?’
Karol warmed his hands by the stove. ‘Well, we might have a problem. I’ve spent all the money.’
I stared at him in disbelief. ‘Spent it on what?’
‘Train fares, accommodation, food – what do you think I’ve spent it on?’
‘So, we’re still stuck here?’ Slapping the document back at Karol, I sat down. Why did everything always conspire against us?
‘Listen – there might be hope. When I described the situation to Jozef Gruja, the delegate at the Consulate, and told him there were over 650 people left stranded here, he told me he’d try to persuade the Soviets to organise transport, but I’ve no idea when, or even if they will. And it’s not only the Germans fighting the Ruskies; the entire world’s at war.’
‘Dear God,’ Mother wailed, ‘to what sort of hell have Gerhard and Lodzia fled?’
1942
Christmas came and went.
There was no carp, no noodles – just fish head soup and a stingy portion of bread. Tatta, his eyesight poor, his fingers gnarled and stiff, vowed not to make any more valenki, yet still, people kept begging. There was no point charging them – no one had money to spare, but he couldn’t see children go barefoot.
On 6th of January, things began happening.
Staff from the Polish Consulate arrived at Vodopad with welcome supplies. There were enough socks for everyone: Seven ladies’ coats, 20 blankets and 20 eiderdowns; several pairs of shoes, scarves and sweaters, 80 cans of condensed milk and some jars of Bovril, 50kgs of sugar, 70 bars of chocolate – and a small first aid kit to distribute amongst 650 inhabitants!
In the event, my parents, Karol and I, each received a pair of socks.
Spread out on the community centre floor, it looked a lot, but once distributed amongst the neediest – which was all of us – none of it stretched far.
The Polish Consulate also donated 4000 roubles to assist welfare at the camp, since most people were now too frail to work.
It was the end of January when Karol rushed through the door shouting, ‘There’s a notice nailed to the community centre door. The free train is due at Permilovo Station imminently. There’s no sign of any NKVD, nor of Smirnov; they’ve abandoned us to make our own arrangements to get to the station. People are already leaving; they have been since yesterday.
‘So, who’s in charge of Vodopad?’ I asked.
‘Who cares? What’s the point of them staying? The Ukrainians have served their time, we’re leaving. I’m off to the Ukrainian quarter to arrange a lift to the station, if all the sleighs haven’t already gone.’
Out of habit, I automatically glanced at the empty place where the clock once stood. Karol left some time ago. I was no longer happy, but worried. Tatta’s cough had worsened – how would he survive the journey to Permilovo exposed for so many hours to this crippling cold? Mama looked equally poorly, having shared her rations for so long in order that little Ella could have more. Now she stood like a reed in the wind.
I packed what remained of our few possessions: photographs, Mama’s table cloth, two pans, my father’s iron last, and a hammer no one wanted. The Ukrainians had satiated their desires on everyone’s cast-offs. Even Mama’s sewing machine went for a few roubles. What remained fitted into my trusty red holdall.
‘Tatta, do we need to take this iron last and the hammer; they’re heavy?’
He took the hobbing foot from me and ran his hand over it. ‘Without this, we wouldn’t have been able to make valenki, and without the extra money, we wouldn’t have been able to eat.’ He returned it to me and kissed the top of my head. ‘These are the only possessions I have to show for a lifetime of toil; a hammer and a piece of iron. Not much, is it?’
I stuffed them back into the holdall.
Karol returned in a great flap. ‘Mama, I got the last horse and sleigh, but it only holds two people. Even then, her father said she can’t collect you until tomorrow morning.
‘Marishu, I suggest you and I leave right away if we’re to stand any chance of finding a room near the station. No one seems to know when this train will arrive or leave. Knowing the Soviets, it might already have been and gone. We can’t risk being left out in the open; that’s providing all the Poles from the sawmills haven’t already snapped up everything; they’re on the doorstep. So are the people at Volosne, and other camps in the vicinity of Permilovo.
I clasped my hands over her head, my eyelids blinking and bit my lip, ‘But Karol, we can’t just leave Mama and Tatta behind.’
‘What choice have we? I have the Ukrainian’s word his daughter will be back from Permilovo tonight. He’s after the money. This way, at least they won’t have to walk – well, they can’t; they’d perish.’
‘Yes, yes, you go,’ Father said. ‘He slapped Karol’s back. ‘Thank you, son. Don’t worry, we’ll be alright.’
So, it was happening! The entire camp was on the move and not before time. The weather was deteriorating daily, and heavy snow fell again yesterday. Violent eddies of air swept along the banks of the Vaymuga, throwing great drifts against the bakery, the shop and the artel, almost concealing the shacks as it gathered and grew. Today there was no snowfall – so far. The sky was a clear and icy blue, but the weather was so capricious; we could never be sure that a white purga wouldn’t catch us before we reached Permilovo as it had when we first arrived.
With our bedding strapped to our backs, we kissed and hugged our parents goodbye and abandoned them, two wraith-like souls waving after us from the window. We each left them our bread rations, because it was doubtful if Szefczuk would bake again.
Father felt sure there would be a soup kitchen somewhere close to the station, and we agreed to meet up there.
We took the Kenga route out of the camp, past the shop and community centre – with its memories of where Stefan and I met. People everywhere were fleeing their bug-infested abodes, and on we hurried past the Ukrainians’ shacks and their petrified Kolkhoz, the call of freedom so loud there was no time to bid farewell to Boris, Roza and Vasily.
Isn’t it strange, I thought, how familiar we have become with the rivers and woodland trails surrounding our prison, and how alien it all seemed two years ago?
Horses and sleighs carrying passengers passed us; others trudged on foot. Ahead and behind us, everyone was leaving.
The wind whipped against our backs and pushed us along, but once we reached the Kenga River, walking became easier; we were no longer half walking, half running, the track was well flattened by those who had gone before.