I ventured outside the station – that niggling little voice still suggesting they might be waiting outside, even though I knew it was futile.
A sharp wind blew, and I pulled my coat tighter about me, inhaling the fresh air. I walked a short distance – no further than the end of the station building. Ukrainians, Georgians, Turkmens and Jews passed me by, and I wondered what life was like for people living here.
The town looked pleasant enough with lots of significant recent buildings. The streets were of asphalt, adorned with trees and shrubs, and I could imagine this might be a safe place to live. But then two Black Crows – Soviet Police vehicles – screeched to a stop ahead, arrested a group of innocent-looking men, and took them off to prison. Was there nowhere on earth where the long tentacles of the NKVD didn’t reach? In fright, I flew back to the train. Flashing my family travel document at the official, I ran onto the platform and clambered up to the safety of the top shelf of the wagon.
34
A week later, our transport arrived in Alma Ata, in southern Kazakhstan. The crew disembarked, disappeared into the station buildings, and I looked down at the platform in dismay – no quick turnaround here then. I needed to get to Persia with all speed if I were to stand any chance of finding Gerhard and Stefan before they moved on.
I had eaten all my smoked sausage, and only a puddle of drinking water remained in my pail. People were getting off the train in search of food. I did too.
The Russian at the Information Desk said the train would remain for three days and suggested everyone use their time to visit Zenkov’s Cathedral and the Zelyony Bazaar – we should explore the many delights Alma Ata offered. A large framed city map hung on the wall beside him with directions.
Lost and hungry, I was in no mind to explore anything. Out of the confines of the station, a stiff breeze blew from the Zailysky Alatau Mountains and whipped about my legs. The sky threatened rain.
I followed the crowd trudging down Furmanov and along Zhybek Zholy to the bazaar. The place was abuzz with Russian and Kazakh voices, the air redolent with the aromas of cinnamon and turmeric. People were going about their daily business, getting on with their lives, unlike me. On the far side, Kazakh farmers were bringing their cattle to sell, and the similarities between this place and Zhabinka market on a Saturday morning were a stab to my heart.
Seeing so much food, none of which I could afford, was pure torture; dried and candied fruits and large luscious red apples. I saw cheeses in varieties I could only dream about, and nuts and honey, and meat stalls where women prepared sausages in front of my eyes. There were stands selling horsemeat, lamb, goat and real pig body parts, and the whole market was a sweet mix of noise and aromas.
Only three items remained in my bag. Standing between me and starvation were my father’s iron hobbing foot, his hammer, and mother’s beautifully embroidered tablecloth.
The tablecloth was no problem; I hated parting with it, but out of hunger swapped it for a sizeable Kazy sausage. With care, I could eke it out for two weeks, providing I had something else with which to augment it.
Bartering the hammer and iron last was difficult. No one was interested. When a trader tried to sell me some of his amazing red apples, I cried, ‘Don’t you understand, I have no money? Look, this is a hobbing foot. Everyone should have one. It’s for mending shoes.’
He replied with a toothless grin, shook his head and nodded at the same time.
I waded further. ‘It’s suitable for use with a range of shoe sizes. See,’ I rotated it to show, ‘I promise you’ll get your use out of it.’ I remembered how Tatta used to sit on his comfy armless chair, mending our boots, pulling each one over the last, the whole hobbing foot clamped between his knees, small tacks in his mouth, the hammer in his hand, while he worked on the repair. When the hobbing foot blurred in front of my eyes, I straightened up and added, ‘I’ll throw in the hammer too, if it helps.’
He hadn’t a clue about what I was talking. No money exchanged hands, but he took pity. I swapped the tools for an apple, the size of a large grapefruit, honey, nuts and dried golden fruits. It was only later when I passed a stall selling shoes that I realised, had I tried here first, I could have easily swapped the last and hammer for a fresh pair of boots. But then I couldn’t eat them, could I?
Leaving the bazaar, I bit greedily into my apple, gazing for a moment at Zenkov’s beautiful Cathedral looming over the town in Panilov Park, but I had no desire to explore; the apple consumed my concentration, and I devoured it complete with pips and core.
At the station, I filled my pail with boiling water and returned to the wagon to sit out the next two days. My fruit and sausage were out of sight in my holdall, which I kept beside me at all times. It seemed pointless lugging it around now since it only contained my box of photographs and my mother’s pillow, but my fingers kept sneaking into my bag, picking off the nuts and dried golden fruits one by one, until I got a grip. I knew if I didn’t show some restraint, I would starve later.
To take my mind off my continually grumbling tummy, I reached for my box of photographs, opened it, and a picture of Jusio stared up at me. ‘Hello you,’ I sighed. ‘You once monopolised my every waking thought, but now I have Stefan – and I love him.’ I relegated his photograph to the back of the pile. Then I remembered the first time I saw Stefan and how my life had changed in that instant. My recollection of that moment when he came over, and I thought he would ask me to dance, but he lost his nerve and instead turned off the record player because the needle had got stuck in the groove. I felt utterly crushed, and now, separation from him was like a dull perpetual ache; I had to find him again.
I fingered through the remaining happy snaps – Gerhard and Lodzia’s wedding. Gerhard looking elated, Lodzia radiant in her white gown with Mama and Tatta on either side of them. Tatta was wearing mud-covered boots, having arrived late at the church because he’d been up all night helping his heifer through a breech birth, and had refused to leave her. Mama was so mad at the state of him. Then there was Ella’s baptism. One of myself, hands clasped at my first Holy Communion. Who took this one of Karol sitting on the step outside his little shop, one leg extended, playing his accordion, his gold tooth glinting beneath his dark moustache, the usual mischievous look in his eyes? And this one I took of Mama and Tatta outside our overflowing granary before Stalin’s henchmen arrived and destroyed our lives. How precious were our lives – how happy, how pure!
What would Mama and Tatta think if they saw what had become of their daughter; an orphan in a filthy cattle truck somewhere near the Chinese border? Could they see all these decent people here, ill people doubled up in pain? Some were lolling, others sprawling, their heads drooping forwards or backwards, toothless mouths open in sleep, everyone covered in sweat, not from the heat – because there was none – but from diseases. The Soviets had reduced us all to this.
No one spoke to me. Why can’t I shake off this never-ending evil, I wondered? It just goes on, getting worse and worse. Why has this happened to me? What did I do that was so wrong that God had to punish me like this because it’s me he’s punishing. Mama, Tatta and Karol are out of it – thank God, and Gerhard, Lodzia and Ella have probably starved to death somewhere too.
The sun was setting, throwing the mountains into relief, as it must have done since time immemorial. As darkness fell, the silence closed in and the wind sighed. I was with people, yet I was alone. All I wanted was to die, but my stubborn body kept living. I wept.