The brief walk to the makeshift mortuary gave us too little time to think; too little time to say goodbye. What could we do but leave our father’s body where so many had left their dead?
Karol reclaimed his shearling, and with no time for wondering how this tragedy could have befallen us, we left him there. Returning to the wagon, we sat in silence, too stunned to speak, and the train pulled away.
Daylight faded beyond the grilles, and our first day without Tatta ended. We were on our way to the sun without him; he was on his way to heaven; wherever that was. I wondered if I were to throw a stone at the sky, in which direction should I throw it to find heaven – to the left, to the right, straight up or in between somewhere? Or was it below on the opposite side of the earth – because infinity existed all around us?
Karol said, ‘I wonder what will become of Tatta’s body? We can never visit him to lay flowers and light a candle because we won’t know where he is.’
Murk and shadow filled the cattle truck and my breath came in ragged, shallow gasps as I listened to the agonised sounds of the sick clinging to life by a wisp. They lay curled and stiff, unable to move with scurvy, unable to reach the toilet hole in time to defecate. Mother stared into space; she hadn’t spoken since Tatta died.
Stunned to my core, I tried to make sense of what had happened. Pictures whirled in my mind, scenes of the past two years; a kaleidoscope of suffering, of grey.
Onwards we travelled without stopping until we reached Nyadoma.
Karol roused himself, ‘I’ll go and see if I can get some bread.’ He had little time. Our outward journey taught us not to trust the time the train remained stationary.
I watched him go; his shoulders slumped. How could either of us reclaim our lives now Tatta was dead?
Sliding off the train after him, I gathered snow from beside the tracks, then offered some to Mother, but she refused it. Eating some myself, I put the pan down and stared at the place where my father once lay. He had gone out with Karol to find food. Yes, yes, that must be it. He’ll be back shortly, but then I saw the tuft of brown hair still embedded in the ice and knew he hadn’t gone anywhere.
Our transport was about to leave, but Karol had not yet returned. I watched from the open door and saw him in the distance. The engine gave a whoosh of steam, a whistle – and began pulling away as he started running.
I wedged myself in the gap between the doors. ‘Karol! Hurry!’ But it was moving faster and faster until a cloud of billowing smoke obliterated my view and I knew he would not make it.
The magnitude of what had just happened robbed me of breath. I returned to my place beside Mother, sat down and said nothing. What could I say?
‘Jesus Maria, we’re moving. Where’s Karol?’ She knew. ‘He didn’t get on, did he? Tell me the truth.’
‘I don’t know, Mama; I saw him running, but he got lost in the smoke from the engine.’
‘So, he’s missed the train.’
‘He’ll jump on the next one.’ I tried to quell my fear as much as hers, but I could see Mama didn’t believe me. ‘He’ll catch us up somewhere; you’ll see.’
‘What train will he catch? Where?’
‘There must be more transport for all these people.’ Even this, I knew, was a false hope.
Mama stared at the other passengers. ‘He’ll never catch us up; he has no papers.’
The family travel document – that elusive piece of paper he went all the way to Archangelsk to prise out of the clutches of the Soviets, so we could all be free; it was in my holdall. I listened to the clattering wheels stretching out the distance between us, and thought of him out there, terrified and alone, clutching his pail as the back end of the train disappeared in an aura of smoke and steam. Whatever will he do? What would I do if it happened to me? My instinct would be to catch the next train – but what if it took me in another direction? Worse, what if the NKVD discovered I was travelling without papers? They would lock me up forever.
Mother sobbed quietly beside me, and I placed my arm around her shoulders, drew her frail body closer until she stopped weeping and fell asleep.
Two hours later, our transport began slowing again.
‘It’s a siding,’ someone called from the top shelf, destroying everyone’s hope of finding food, although they all reached into their luggage for pans to scoop snow.
The doors slid open to reveal two men standing outside looking in. One said, ‘Does this one belong to anyone here? I found him hanging onto the back of the train.’
I stared aghast at Karol, snow swirling about his bare head, icicles in his matted hair, but sweat running down his face. ‘Mama, wake up! It’s Karol – Karol’s here.’
He seemed to have great difficulty climbing on board, and two men beside the door took each of his arms and dragged him inside.
Mama climbed off the shelf and threw wide her arms, blubbering through tears of joy. ‘Ahh, Karol, my boy, what happened to you?’
The man who brought him said, ‘He’s lucky to be alive. It was a job prising his hands off the crossbar.’
Karol wasn’t right; I could see that.
‘I ran after it,’ he said. ‘It was going too fast, but I grabbed the crosspiece on the end wagon and jumped on, but I couldn’t get inside.’
‘Oh, Karol, that was hours ago. Where’s your hat?’
‘It blew off.’ He clasped his head with claw-like fingers, ‘I’ve got a headache, Mama. Let me lie down.’
‘What’s wrong with your hands?’ I took one and tried to prise back his fingers.
‘I don’t know? Why can’t I straighten them, Mama? What’s wrong with me?’
We took each of his hands, massaging his locked fingers and palms until he fell asleep in Mama’s arms. She stroked his damp hair away from his forehead, anxiety etched into her face. ‘He has a temperature.’
At least we have him back, I thought; at least we are still a family – what’s left of us. We had to get him right.
Everything was down to me now. I was already thinking ahead, wishing the train would get going. At the next station, I would hurry off and go in search of food. None of us had eaten since leaving Permilovo. At least I still had the strength.
When Karol awoke, he was clutching his head. I had assumed he needed sleep, but Mama was wiping the sweat from his face with her shawl. ‘He’s burning up,’ she said. ‘We need water.’
Thank goodness we were still stationary. In that eerie hour, I reached for our only remaining bucket, pulled open the door, the sound of it disturbing everyone, and jumped out of the wagon. Grey dawn was breaking on the far horizon, and I stood for a few moments filling my lungs with pure freezing air. I filled the bucket with snow and positioned it on the floor.
‘Help me please, somebody.’ A pair of obliging arms hauled me back into the fetid wagon.
Karol ate some snow and rested his head back into Mother’s lap. I tore a piece of fabric from the hem of my dress and made a compress.
Somewhere in the wagon, another anguished cry told me someone else had died – the fifth since leaving Permilovo, including Tatta.
A little later in the day, the rumble outside heralded a passing train on the main tracks, giving us hope we would soon be on our way. Far from feeling better, Karol’s condition worsened. He unbuttoned his coat as if it was stifling him; then pulled it closer. He was hot; he was cold; he didn’t know how he felt.
A hoot, the wagon shook, and we were moving.
‘I’m thirsty,’ he said. He had already drunk all the water I had collected in the siding. Stasia Oleszkiewicz, sitting beside us, handed an empty pan to the boy on the top shelf and asked him to gather snow from the sills.