Dancing Under the Red Star (13 page)

At six o’clock the following morning, we were issued shovels and, in strict military fashion, marched more than six miles toward Moscow to our appointed work detail. There we learned everything we never wanted to know about digging trenches, entirely by hand, and carting away the dirt in small, flimsy wooden trolleys.

We were constantly under the suspicious eyes of harsh military officers, as if we and the students—instead of the Germans—were Russia’s actual enemy. They must have expected escape attempts or a massive group desertion, but most of us were too afraid even to look at the officers the wrong way, much less to attempt a getaway. Under this dark, watchful command, we labored until our hands were blistered and bleeding. After only the first day, my hands looked like raw meat.

They gave us a half-hour break for lunch: a small piece of hard black bread, a chunk of unheated sausage of questionable origin, and a sip of water. We also had two ten-minute cigarette breaks during the day.

At about six that evening, we started an excruciatingly painful journey toward our temporary home. We were all overcome with weariness, near the point of collapse, with feet so tired and sore that they dragged as we tried to inch forward. Our meat-red hands were covered with blisters, and anything we touched adhered to our sticky, raw skin.

When we finally reached the kolkhoz late that evening, we collapsed on the floor, famished but too fatigued to eat. The lucky ones immediately fell asleep. I lay awake, thinking of Papa, Mama, and my anguish. Through half-open eyes, I watched the others as they slept. Waking up sometime after midnight, we went out to the well for water to heat on the stove so we could wash and treat our poor hands. We cooked millet cereal and potatoes and ate everything with our hands, like animals. Then, still fully clothed, we slept as if we had died.

The next day was the same. And the next. Aching, stiff, and sore beyond description, we got up to the early-morning calls that always came too soon. Without much complaint, we bandaged our bloody hands and started out again, day after day after day. This went on for several weeks with little diversion. The only good thing about our work was that we gradually developed heavy calluses on our hands, which helped us cope with the strenuous work assignments.

The military authorities allowed no malingering within the ranks, but many workers began to fail from the unbearably harsh physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual conditions. I was learning, through blood and toil, that hardship offers a chance at personal growth and character development. And through no choice of my own, I stretched my capacity to handle more than I ever thought I could. I was overwhelmed, exhausted, and yet still working. And sometimes, when we got into a rhythm of digging and shoveling and loading earth, I felt proud of working together to protect the people we loved.

One morning marching out to our work detail, we noticed a dense grouping of airplanes heading over us toward Gorky. None of us thought it too peculiar at the time, but later that afternoon we began to see flames and smoke on the horizon. Those airplanes were German bombers attacking Gorky. We were stricken with fear for our families and could not concentrate on our work. Many of us broke down and cried for our loved ones at home. I kept thinking of my mama and wondering and worrying—was she okay? I prayed for her, and I hoped that God heard me. Despite our anxiety, we had to work our full shift, and at quitting time, it was a very subdued and troubled column, about four hundred in all, who shouldered shovels and began our three-day journey back to Gorky, with no idea what we’d find when we got there.

We were walking in a small gully beside the road, following a meandering creek with reed-lined banks, when suddenly the German planes returned. They passed directly over us, but this time they strafed us with tracer bullets. I heard, “Quick! Dive!” then felt myself falling as a man’s arm pushed me down a hill into the tall brush. Our hearts beat wildly with panic as we flattened out among the reeds of the creek. The assault began in the air with a dense spray of bullets that spread out as they struck the earth, making muffled noises as the projectiles penetrated the ground around us. I guess I was just
lucky
again that day, because the gunfire missed me by no more than three feet in any direction.

When the planes were gone and we began to get up, I was still so frightened I could no longer walk straight. My body shook involuntarily as I tried to move my feet along the road. Only a few in the group were slightly wounded from the gunfire that day—nothing serious, by the grace of God. No fatalities.

None of us slept that night—not a wink! We were not allowed to return home, and there was no information, except from the radio, which confirmed our fears that Gorky had been heavily bombed and damaged, along with the automobile factory and surrounding areas. There was no mention of casualties, but we all assumed that many lives and families were destroyed that day. Days later, much to my relief, I found out that Mama was okay. There had been only one casualty from our village, Ramona Rushton, an American woman. I was deeply saddened to learn of her fate, but I was also amazed and grateful that many more had not perished. I was learning not to look too far up the road, not to plan too far ahead, to take only one day at a time and then move on.

Our task grew even more difficult. That fall the days grew drastically colder, and that winter eventually developed into the coldest on record. It is said that Russia’s brutal winter of 1941-42, the coldest of the century for that region, was instrumental in the Russians’ repelling the German advances, leading to the eventual German defeat and Allied victory of 1945. The German attacks on Gorky continued coming from the air; the endless stretches of antitank trenches we dug with our hands were never put to the test.

But we kept digging in the bitter weather. I didn’t know such cold existed, and it was very hard on even the strongest of us. I developed a severely inflamed instep from walking long miles in an ill-fitting felt boot. By great good fortune, I was granted some sick leave to have it treated at home, and the doctor gave me a pass to travel. My mother was then working in a hospital in our village, in charge of the linen supply, and I was again fortunate that the head doctor gave me a thorough examination and x-ray. He found my foot to be in extremely bad shape and prescribed extensive bed rest, which suited me just fine. He then gave me a document releasing me from further work in the trenches, at least for the time being.

Is this, too, an element of the divine?
I speculated.

I recovered rather quickly and returned to my job in the Gorky auto factory, Autostroy, as the intensity of the war seemed to settle a bit. I had a fresh perspective about factory work now as I remembered my trench-digging days and my aching feet. Adversity is an amazing phenomenon.

I held a variety of jobs in Gorky. In 1942 I began working as secretary to the head of the tank-building department in the Gorky factory. Russia had started building its first tanks, the
T
(Tiger) series, the year before. I only worked there for a few weeks, but the experience was a bright spot for me. My boss, a Russian nicknamed Domino, was a man of genuine sensitivity and compassion. He took me under his wing, in a sense, and went out of his way to be considerate to me. He also provided a fine job for my former math teacher, whom I happened to find one day, starving to death on the streets of Gorky. Domino’s generosity toward me and my teacher was a rare humane occurrence.

Then I found a new job as clerk and secretary of the people’s court. This was the civil court, where people charged with crimes other than political ones would stand trial. It was convenient—right in the village, just a few houses away from ours. But if my own life and circumstances were bad, in the court I saw more of the same and worse.

The prisoners were mostly Russian nationals, the motherland’s own, everyday hardworking people just trying to get by, causing no one harm. Most had been arrested on trumped-up charges of petty crime. And even when an actual crime had been committed, the punishment always outweighed the offense; execution or deportation were routine sentences for the least alleged infraction. The officials never listened to the defendants’ explanations or cries for justice; in fact, the officials actually laughed in the defendants’ faces at these hearings. Each story of suffering and injustice was different, but each was also the same. I could only stand this for about nine months, and then I left voluntarily. I could not be impartial to the pitiful prisoners I saw brought into court from the prison. So much human misery marched in front of me every day that my heart couldn’t take it any longer. Why such unnecessary ruthlessness and cruelty? I didn’t understand. The only answer I ever found was the evil that dwells in the hearts of men.

After my brief stint with the court, I returned to the factory as a secretary again. This position involved traveling from our village into the city, which I enjoyed, but traveling also caused new problems. Every morning I walked about twenty minutes to a streetcar stop so I could take a short ride, then transfer to a second streetcar, which took me the rest of the way to work. It sounds simple, but the streetcars often didn’t run, or they ran terribly late, and they were always crowded. Like many others in the same predicament, I often hitchhiked to arrive at work on time.

Being late for work was considered a crime, and absences from work required a written and verifiable excuse from a doctor. During the war, infractions were sometimes severely punished, including by imprisonment. Since everyone was under the same constraints, the Russian people were generally willing to help others. On several occasions, when I could see the streetcar was already overcrowded, I’d wait until it stopped, and then I’d climb up the back and in through one of the rear windows. This usually required assistance, and someone already on board helped me every time. When the streetcar moved, people literally hung outside the door, on the steps, holding on to wherever they could, to ensure they would not be late for work. These episodes must have looked like a circus.

When hitchhiking or bus climbing didn’t work, I would sometimes jump onto the back of a passing truck and then leap off in the next town. It was very tricky as well as dangerous. But I was successful; I lived. My gymnastics background proved quite useful.

I thanked God for my early childhood athletic experience, and I was able to get to work on time in most instances. My exploits brought plenty of personal exhilaration to my otherwise despondent life. I lost many buttons and sometimes arrived disheveled and scraped, but I always arrived smiling. If Mama had known the risks I took, I’m sure she’d have had a heart attack. But then again, Mama prayed.

Later in 1942, at a dance in Gorky, I met two British officers—Mac and Leslie. They were delighted to find someone who spoke English. Mac was short, stout, and muscular with black hair and a thick black beard. Leslie was tall, thin, and clean shaven with pale features. They were part of a crew of instructors who were teaching Russian soldiers how to operate the English tanks, a contractual part of the Allies’ lease-lend pact with Russia. Leslie was the quiet, reserved type who did most of the thinking, while Mac was a confident jokester who was never at a loss for words.

The three of us struck up a unique bond and friendship. They lived in a hotel in the city and had no other friends. These guys were a breath of fresh air to me in the midst of my galling life. I admired and respected them for their frank compassion, integrity, and unconditional friendship, and I think I kept them from being so lonely. Mac and Leslie provided me with support, encouragement, and amusement. They were funny, best friends, like Laurel and Hardy, and as wildly different as America and Russia. Unsuspectingly, they would also play a pivotal role in my future.

One day Mac asked if he and Leslie could visit me at my home in the village. “Please, Margie. There’s nothing to worry about, really!” he said.

I hesitated. I didn’t want them to see our living conditions. We had moved from that abominable little room to another, which was not much less abominable. Reluctantly, though, I agreed; I trusted them and wanted them to meet my mother and my other friends.

So Leslie and Mac came for a visit. In spite of our humble conditions and my sadness that I had no treats to offer them, we had a great time. My fears seemed unfounded, for these deficiencies didn’t matter to them. They were really happy to be with us; we talked and laughed and even danced to some old American records that I borrowed from a neighbor. And I treasured my relationship with them all the more.

Our time together ended much too quickly. I was brokenhearted when I learned that we’d have to say our permanent goodbyes. They were due to leave Russia in just a few days, returning to England upon completion of their military tour.

“Margie, what can we do for you? Whatever it is, just name it. If there’s anything we can do…,” Mac generously offered while Leslie stood back and nodded in sad agreement. They both knew that, more than anything, Mama and I wanted to return to the States. Papa had been gone nearly five years now, and we didn’t have much hope that he was still alive. They promised to help us in any way they could.