A delegate from the Polish Embassy, who was staffing the information desk, told me the family were unknown to him. All he knew was that someone called Alfred Powiecki had contacted the Polish Embassy from Yaroslavl Station, begging they make food available to the train arriving from Permilovo because of the perilous state of its passengers.
The envoy was about Gerhard’s age. He had kind eyes, someone I felt I could trust, someone who would understand. ‘I need to reach Aktyubinsk,’ I said. ‘My brother left Vodopad two months before us to join the army, and he’ll be waiting for me.’
‘You’re travelling alone?’
Nodding, and hating having to acknowledge the truth of it, I explained. ‘My family perished in Arctic Russia – within two weeks of each other. I lost them all apart from Gerhard.’ Lost them; it sounded as if I had misplaced them somewhere.
‘If you say he left Vodopad two months ago, then I’d say it is doubtful he would wait for you after so long. I think it is more likely that he’s already joined up elsewhere.’
‘Then I shall go to the enrolment centre. Where is it?’
‘There are so many now scattered all over vast areas of central Asia. The headquarters are at Buzuluk but the principal enrolment centres are at Totskoye and Kermine. More are being set up in surrounding areas because of the huge influx of refugees.’
‘So where could my brother be?’
‘I have no idea. The only certainty is that Stalin’s refusal to provide recruits with sufficient food, let alone feed their families, means our troops are being evacuated out of the Soviet Union with all speed through Persia. Then it’s on to Iraq and Palestine for training. From there, they will send them to the front line in the war zone.’
I felt the blood pump in my ears. Would I ever see them again?
‘Have you considered enlisting?’ the envoy asked.
‘I’m too young. I’m only seventeen.’
‘Then lie about it – they would accept you – it would mean the difference between starvation and salvation.
Gazing into his eyes, I realised he wasn’t joking.
‘Food is guaranteed because the British Army is in control in Persia and Iraq. They would give you a uniform,’ he looked down at my feet and tattered valenki, ‘and sturdy boots.’
In my bereaved and fragile state of mind, I was not fit to decide what to do with myself and felt I was being coerced along a path upon which I was not ready to embark.
‘I wouldn’t be any good.’ A sudden rush of tears spilled down my cheeks. ‘I couldn’t kill anyone; I just want to find my brother.’ Then thought of adding, ‘And the boy I love,’ but realised how silly it must sound.
‘Then I wish you well. Your brother may still be in Persia when you arrive.’
Staring at him then, open-lipped, I said, ‘You mean I’m going to Persia?’
‘You will be if you remain on this train.’
‘But our transport is heading east – Persia is in the opposite direction.’
‘It’s heading almost to the Chinese border to collect as many of our soldiers and refugees as possible. From Alma Ata, it will head back to the Caspian Sea via Tashkent to pick up more troops, so if you reconsider enlisting – that’s the place to do it – or even in Totskoye later on – it’s never too late.’
‘And if I didn’t enlist, would I still be able to travel to Persia?’
‘You wouldn’t be the only orphan, providing Stalin hasn’t already put a stop to it. Stay on the train and make sure your boxcar doesn’t become detached from the main transport. The NKVD are fond of their sick petty tricks.’
I collected water and returned to my wagon. It was full of newly arrived refugees. My place and bedding had gone, but I couldn’t point an accusing finger at anyone; one filthy eiderdown looked the same as any other. Thank goodness for my shearling, and my mother’s pillow stuffed into my holdall. I meandered along the platform, peering into each wagon. The recently added trucks were less cramped, and I climbed aboard.
The first blessing was that the stench was less pungent. The second that there was enough space for me on the top shelf beside the iron grilles. I plumped up mother’s pillow, wrapped my coat closer, and kept myself to myself.
The hours slipped by. Only when stars freckled the sky did I feel safe enough to reach into my holdall for a couple more slices of sausage, and a crust of bread, terrified the others might notice I had food and steal it while I slept.
By morning, our transport was well on its way. I sat with my head resting back against the wall; the breeze blowing in through the grilles. It offered a comfortable relief from the stale air of the wagon where everyone was wheezing and sick. While I dozed, the kilometres sped by; my head lolling in rhythm with the motion of the train.
Eleven hours later we arrived at Uralsk. There was the usual rush of refugees surging for spaces in wagons, impeding those trying to leave.
My desperation for water overcame my desire to hold on to my place on the top shelf and I grabbed my pail and bag. With Karol’s jacket hanging below my knees, my boots ripped, my scalp itching, I staggered through the mud and slush of the platform like a drunken vagrant. By the time I found a tap, filled my pail and returned to the wagon, someone was in my seat.
With ghostly whistles shrieking into the night, our transport swallowed up the kilometres. Another morning dawned – another station – guards helping grieving families to remove their dead – the usual ghastly routine. The moment someone got off, I transferred myself to the upper shelf. The niceties of respectful manners no longer bothered me; I had learned to look out for myself.
Despite what the envoy had told me, I knew I would do whatever it took to find Stefan and Gerhard – and that meant searching for them in Aktyubinsk – just in case. Beyond that, my mind and my fate were a blank. Without them, I had no future – too old for an orphanage and no appetite for a fight. What would I do with myself if I couldn’t find them?
Turning my face to the iron gratings, I watched the passing countryside. There wasn’t much to see – kilometre after kilometre of endless steppes, sparsely populated with few trees, grasslands and abundant sandy areas.
I vaguely remembered learning about this part of the world at school and felt sure I was following the Silk Route. I’m like a tramp following in the footsteps of Alexander the Great and Marco Polo, and there was that unexpected urge – the word ‘Mama’ instantly on my lips, ready to tell her, and for a moment I let my guard drop when I realised there was no one to tell.
At last – Aktyubinsk.
Ever since Stefan and I parted at Vodopad, I had fantasised over how it might be once I arrived here. I would fly along the platform straight into his arms, leaving Mama, Tatta and Karol to greet Gerhard and Lodzia first. I knew, without doubt, they would all be waiting together for us, but Karol already killed that notion dead in its tracks. However, I couldn’t help hoping. Tatta told me to always have hope.
As our transport drew into the station, and the steam enveloping us evaporated, reality bore no resemblance to my fantasy. Yet still I couldn’t help myself and held onto the iron bars, scanning the burgeoning crowds, my anticipation mounting – just in case. My disappointment was doubly crushing.
The reality was nothing like my dream. The platform – as everywhere else – teamed with sick, bedraggled refugees, desperate to board impeding the sick and bedraggled passengers trying to get off. The carts for the dead – it was all here.
Reaching for my holdall, l pushed my way off the train and stood at the back of the platform beside an empty wooden bench, my eyes alert. How naïve and stupid was I? When it became apparent there was no one waiting for me, I stood on the periphery of the crowd assembled around a Polish information centre and listened. There was no army muster point here.