Sliding on the Snow Stone (20 page)

In my head, and in my heart, I struggled to answer questions that were consuming me. In the sky, clouds loomed over me, and I felt suffocated by them, as if they were stopping something inside me. I followed Peter and his group, all the while as if I were walking through a fog, but, there was no fog, only the one which swirled inside me. My coat wrapped itself around me, it comforted me, and kept me warm, until such a time came when I found myself unfastening the top two buttons and folding down the collar. It was getting a little warmer and the days began to stretch in length, we had more light. I hoped the worst of the winter was over.

One night, we were eating some potatoes which one of us had found nearby, Martha baked them over a fire, they smelt delicious as they were cooking, and they melted inside us. Whilst with Peter’s group I was safe, warm and ate quite well considering our circumstances. Okay, every so often, we went hungry for a day or two, but somehow, Peter always got us through and we found something. My admiration for Peter grew like a sunflower in the heat of summer for the way he looked out for us. We looked out for him too, but he didn’t seem to need it so much. He was a great leader, and had a quality about him that I couldn’t work out.

Despite this, as we sat around the camp fire that night, a rage grew inside me. I’d been through so much, forced out of my home, out of my country and left to wander or to lie down and die. Father had been killed by a bomb. I didn’t know whether Mother was still alive, or the whereabouts of my brother, Volodimir. I wanted to lift my head up and scream. Instead I looked at Peter, ‘So! This is what God provides for his flock, eh? Thousands dead, and many more just like us, wandering, going nowhere. Walking like the blind. Towards who knows what? My Father’s dead, my village has most likely been burned down or bombed. I’ve got nowhere to go.’ I covered my face with my hands. I wanted to jump up and shout, to punch someone or something, but I couldn’t. I was like a sack of potatoes, just like a lump of nothing. Years of ill treatment had turned me into a shadow. Both the Nazis and the Soviets had treated me and many others like dirt. We’d been ground down. There was no fight left in us. Peter was sitting just opposite me. I lowered my hands from my face and shouted, ‘So Peter, tell me. Where is God? He’s not here, is he? How can he be? He shouldn’t let this happen. So many people have died. Why? God should have stopped all this. Why hasn’t he stopped it?’

Peter looked at me, his gaze was unwavering. ‘The Lord performs many wonders. He is with us now, I can feel him . . . ’

‘
How can you say that? All I can feel is death and fear. All around us. That’s what we’ve got here. We’re in a living Hell!’

‘
That’s right, and you know why that is, don’t you? It’s because there are forces of darkness at work in the world. The Devil is among us. There is a great battle going on between good and evil. But, we must always remember that the world is God’s creation. It’s a beautiful creation.’

‘
God has forsaken us. If He made this world, then why do we have bombs and weapons that can blast a village or town to pieces? People are being murdered every day. That is not beautiful.’

‘
Sometimes things happen that test our faith. But how can we truly see what is beautiful if we do not know what is ugly, or if we do not experience hardship?’

I hesitated, still burning inside, but the flames weren’t roaring so hard. ‘This is more than just hardship, this is a catastrophe. I’m all alone in the world. I fear what is to come for me.’

‘
With the Lord at your side you will find a way. You will find a path. You must place your trust in the Lord. Remember the tale of the merchant who sold everything so he could have just one pearl? That pearl is like the kingdom of Heaven. Whatever happens to you in life, whatever losses you may have, the kingdom of Heaven is always there for you. You must never forget that. I understand you’ve been through difficult times, enough to break any man’s heart twice over, but you must stay strong, Stefan, and keep your faith.’

I didn’t know what to say to that, because I knew there was truth in his words. Above us the moon threw its beams down at us. There were no clouds above us anymore. In the space of a few minutes the sky had cleared. I felt a strange sensation. As if I could just float up into the air and fly into the heavens. I shook my head to free myself of that strangeness, and then, feeling very tired, I lay down next to the fire and drifted into sleep. The following day, I woke up and the sun was shining. It threw out brilliant yellow rays as it simmered on the horizon. Spring was on its way, and not only was the sun in the sky, it was in my heart. I don’t know whether it was Peter’s words or the sunshine that made me feel so much better, but the clouds inside me had disappeared. I felt as if I was floating.

We soldiered on, and of course with the spring came a wider choice of food. We were able to get a range of vegetables from the countryside and farmland around us as we continued on our trek. The fish returned, they became more plentiful, and every few days I pulled enough in to feed our group.

‘
We’re close to the border now,’ one morning Peter spoke to us following prayers, ‘Germany is just the other side of this village. Soon we’ll be safe, away from the danger of the Red Army. Refuge is there waiting for us.’

I wondered how Peter knew so much, but did not question him. How could I? He’d led us through a wilderness, through some dark days, and provided for us, both physically and spiritually. He was, in my eyes, a superman.

That morning, we’d got no provisions for breakfast, so I wandered along the river bank, savouring the spring sunshine and looking for a spot where I could cast my line to maybe get a bite. I sat down beside the river in a secluded spot and opened up my bag. I had a good rummage through to find my line, and to choose a hook that was still in good enough condition. Whilst doing so, I pulled out a bunch of scrunched-up paper. I unfolded the crumpled mess and saw they were German Marks! The ones issued by the Nazis in war time. Of course! Father had got them when working back in Stanislaviv. These were the last few, which had been hidden away in the bottom of the bag all that time.

Jumping up, I strode away from the river bank and down an embankment. It was just a short walk to the nearest village. The first few houses were soon in sight, and I broke into a run, hoping to buy something with my money.

Nervously, I made my way down onto the rough track that divided the dwellings. I looked at the first house, and the one opposite. Which one to approach? The one on the left was well kept, and the gate was open. I found myself drawn towards it, went through the gate and walked up the path. I knocked on the door, timidly at first, then a little bit harder, I was hungry and there was nothing to lose.

Within a minute or so, the door opened and a well worn, stoutish woman stood, filling the doorway. ‘Yes?’

‘
I . . . I have some money,’ I spluttered, ‘and I wish to buy some food. Do you have anything to spare? I can pay. Look.’ I waved the notes.

Her expression didn’t change. ‘Wait there,’ she replied.

Another couple of minutes crawled by and then she returned holding a box.

‘
Here,’ she opened up the box and there were six lovely eggs sitting in there.

She passed the box to me and I gave her the German War Marks. She unfolded them and then held them up in front of her. Then, she tore them up, into little pieces, and they fluttered away on the breeze.

Well, I didn’t wait around to ask her why she did that. I turned and ran back down the path, clutching the box of eggs, and kept running until I got back to where Peter and the rest of our group had been camped. At least I tried to, but I couldn’t find them. I stood there scratching my head. It was definitely the right spot. I looked around. The landscape was the same, but there were no ashes from where our fire had been, no patches of flattened grass where we’d camped. I thought I must have made a mistake and was in the wrong place, so I scouted around, and must have covered every blade of glass within a square mile, trying to find Peter and the others. I found nothing.

Eventually I stopped. I was so confused. Where could they be? Meanwhile, my stomach was rumbling. I was still holding the eggs in my hand. Beneath a nearby bush I found an old discarded burnt-out tin. I tapped the bottom of it. It was flimsy, but still just about intact. I scraped out the bottom, there was some burnt-out food debris in there, and then I got some water from a nearby stream and cooked those eggs up. I ate three of them and put the others in my bag.

I was at a loss what to do next. It must have been about midday, the sun was overhead. I decided to keep heading north west. Maybe Peter and the others had gone ahead, maybe they hadn’t realised I’d gone missing. That seemed unlike Peter, but what else could have happened? Maybe they’d decided to walk around the outside of the village, rather than into the middle of it as I had done. It was likely they would have done this to avoid any confrontations.

With the bag slung over my shoulder I strode off in that direction. If I hurried along, I might catch up with them. I skirted around the left side of the village, giving it a wide berth, following the borders of the freshly ploughed fields, using walls and hedgerows for cover. Flowers were coming into bloom once again, the earth was ready for nature to spring its bounties and the sun up above me was feeding the land. Within a week or two it would all begin to burst up from the ground.

Before too long I’d passed by the village. It was a quiet kind of place anyhow, and I was grateful for that. As I walked I scanned the horizon constantly, and on one occasion I saw what I thought might be a group of people, but as I got closer I realised it was just a group of saplings. I walked on and reached the bottom of a hill. It was a steep one. Surely this would have slowed them down. Some of the older members of the group, such as Martha, couldn’t walk so well. I was certain that, once I’d got to the top I’d be able to look down and see them somewhere. I’d be able to shout down to them.

I flew up that hill, breathing hard and breaking into a sweat. I stopped halfway to take off my coat and threw it over my shoulder. I pulled the peak of my hat down to keep out the sun and carried on. When I was near the top I stopped once again. I turned around and had a good look around. It was a beautiful morning and I could see villages dotted here and there all over the landscape, but there was no sign of Peter and the others. For a second or two I wondered to myself whether they were real or whether I’d just dreamt them up. How could they just vanish like this? I turned back around, and carried on walking. I finally reached the top and stood there taking a good few deep breaths. Then I looked down.

I drew my breath in. Down in the valley below was a convoy of trucks and armoured vehicles. They’d all stopped and some soldiers were wandering around smoking cigarettes. Others were looking at maps. There were soldiers with rifles and guns, there were anti-aircraft guns mounted on some of the trucks. They hadn’t seen me, so I threw myself down onto the ground. I examined them more closely. They weren’t Nazis, nor were they Soviets. The uniforms weren’t the right shape or colour. I strained my eyes to make out the markings on the vehicles and was able to just about make out an oblong shape on one or two of the bigger trucks. There were a few faint stripes and a blur of small stars dotted onto those oblongs. Americans! I stood up and straightened my clothes, and put my coat back on. I clambered down that hill, holding my hands up. It was a descent towards safety, or so I hoped. Once I’d surrendered myself to the Americans, the Soviets would never get hold of me.

When I was half way down, some of them saw me and lifted up their rifles, so I lifted my hands higher. On reaching the bottom, a soldier rushed up to me and snatched my bag from me, ‘Don’t move a goddam muscle! This is the US army! Stay right where you are and don’t say nothing!’

He ran his hands around my body, and rummaged through my coat pockets. Then he stepped away. He emptied the contents of my bag onto the grass, squatted down, and picked through what was there. He walked up to me. ‘Okay kid, where are you from?’

‘
I . . . I’m from Ukraine.’

He frowned. ‘Yeah? What the hell are you doing out here, all on your lonesome?’

‘
I’m running from the Soviet Army.’

He frowned again, and looked me up and down. ‘Okay, kid, get your things and follow me.’

I scooped up my belongings and stuffed them back in the bag, and he took me to one of the trucks.

‘
Wait here, kid.’

He spoke briefly with what looked like a senior officer. The officer looked at me and then nodded to the soldier, who approached me once again. ‘Okay, kid. Get in this truck, we’re gonna get you outta here, until we can figure out what to do with you.’

I climbed into the back of the truck. There were two other boys in there, both of them a year or two younger than me. We nodded to each other. I reached into my bag and got the three remaining eggs out. They were a little cracked after being thrown on the grass, but were still all in one piece. I handed one to each of the boys, who both smiled and accepted them. We all peeled off the shells. I bit into my egg. The truck started up and pulled away.

Chapter 11

Ukrainian proverb: He is guilty who is not at home

So there I was, in a town called Regensburg, that’s where the Americans took me. I was registered into a Displaced Persons Camp. There were thousands of us there, of many different nationalities. There were lots of Ukrainians, and there were also Poles, Czechs, Latvians, and others from neighbouring countries.

I was given a bed in a wooden barrack. There were 12 of us in there, Ukrainians mostly, but, before I could settle in I was taken to a medical point and sprayed with powder to clear the lice off me. I was pushed into a shower where I was able to scrub myself down properly for the first time in many months. The water turned almost black as it collected on the floor of the shower. It swirled around as it disappeared down the drainage hole, leaving a layer of grit and scum. I washed my hair and scraped the soft bristles from my chin with a clean razor. It felt good to be clean. I was given a new set of clothes. My old ones were incinerated, including my beloved coat. I felt a twist of pain inside me when they took that coat. It was more than just an item of clothing to me, it was more like a second skin. I wanted to reach out and pull it back. For quite some time, I mourned the loss of it. The new clothes given to me by the Americans were decent enough, including a brand new overcoat. It wasn’t quite as good as my old one, but I took it gratefully. For the first time in a long time, I felt human again.

The Americans were good-hearted and the camp was well run. There were plenty of blankets, pillows and clean sheets available. We kept warm, and ate well. Every day I queued up in a long line to get my meals. The camp was positioned on an old army base, it covered a huge area of land, completely flat, with a variety of buildings. There were a large number of barracks assigned just for use by the male population of the camp, and a separate, similar sized area for the women. Right next to the female quarters were several dozen more barracks, which were assigned to children, so that they could be cared for either by relatives or by the womenfolk. When I first arrived at the camp, I wandered into this area and was shocked to see how many children had washed up there in the aftermath of the storm that was the War. Many of them were outside their huts, wide-eyed and scrawny, one or two were running around, but most of them looked painfully thin and just stood looking forlorn. There were dozens of them, some of them were so small, I was amazed at how they could have survived the endless carnage we’d all been through.

There were six shower blocks with adjacent toilets at each one, and in the middle of all this was a large hall with a kitchen at one end. This was where I ate my first meal at the camp, a dish of potatoes and cabbage with gravy. It tasted so good, I could have eaten it twice. It was the summer of 1945, the weather was good; no rain and lots of warm sunshine stabbing through a cool breeze, so the Americans organised tables for us to eat our meals outside.

At the far end of the camp was a group of brick buildings, about seven or eight separate units, some used for storage, others for cooking and others as workshops. In the middle of them all was a large two-storey mansion house. This was where the Americans based themselves, it was from there that the regular patrols and guards came from.

The day after our arrival, we were interviewed by a clerk and allocated to our work details. I was assigned to work in the barber shop. A group of us got marched over there and we were greeted by Victor, who was in charge. He was a Latvian, stoutish, with big bushy eyebrows and what seemed like a permanent grin on his face.

‘
So, young man, we’re going to teach you how to cut hair.’ Seeing the expression on my face he chuckled, his shoulders shaking, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll start you off slowly.’

Victor was good to me. He was good to all the young men and women who worked for him. Within a week or two, I was snipping away, just basic haircuts, nothing too fancy, but it gave me a little bit of confidence. It made me think that maybe I could be my own man one day and make a living. I got into a good daily routine. Up early and, after a quick breakfast of coffee and bread, I’d start work around eight. Those of us who worked there began the day by scrubbing the whole place down. We’d clean all the cutting tools, the razors and the wash basins, and then mop the floor down. And then the first customers would begin to arrive. Many were new arrivals at the camp, a dishevelled-looking lot, all with wild hair and whiskers. They all looked in need of some attention, and there were hundreds of them. We were kept busy every hour of every day, and I got quite good at cutting hair. I enjoyed the feel of the metal clippers in my hand, and once they’d done their work, it was time for the scissors. I’d snip away and then comb, and then snip some more. Finally, I’d scrape with the razor, just to finish off. The men would then stand up out of the chair, I’d give them a napkin to wipe their necks down and they’d walk out looking like new.

It was good, solid, steady work, and many months passed by. We reached the winter, and I was so glad to be working inside, in the warm. It was a small barber shop and Victor had an electric heater which he switched on in the mornings to warm the place up. Often, some of the new arrivals would sit in there after their haircut just because it was warm, but Victor soon shooed them out.

The barracks weren’t quite so warm however, but we were issued with extra blankets to get us through the cold nights. I had a bed in the barrack which was up against a side wall. I liked that. It gave me just a little bit of privacy. I still, somehow, had kept the bag. It was strange to have that with me, as if I’d existed in another life. Now and again I’d empty the contents out onto the bed. The fishing line was there, the mangled hooks, and the few tins with fire lighting equipment, and also the wooden bracelet given to me by that young girl on the border of Ukraine and Slovakia. That seemed like a lifetime ago, rather than just a few months. I rolled those beads between my fingers and it lifted my heart up a little to hold those small wooden beads carved from Ukrainian oak. All I’d got in the world was there before me on my bed. It wasn’t much, but at least I was safe and dry, clean and well fed.

At night, many of the young men, and women, would sit around outside their barracks, all through the year, whatever the weather. If it rained we crowded into one of the barracks, and during that first winter I found myself wrapping my new coat around me to keep out the chill. In the fading light of evening, cigarettes were smoked, tea and coffee were brewed up and we talked until it was late. Hitler was dead and the Nazis were defeated, we all praised the Lord for that. We swapped stories, each one as tragic as the last. We had a lot of laughs too. There was horseplay; the young men arm-wrestled and had all sorts of competitions to see who was the strongest or the most acrobatic. All to impress the girls of course, who sat in a group giggling as they watched us young men showing off.

As those evenings turned into night, the girls drifted off to their own barracks and the conversation took on a more serious tone. There was one topic that dominated: going home. That was what most people were looking forward to. Getting back to their old way of life, back with friends and family. Of course, there were those who may have lost loved ones and didn’t even know. That caused a lot of anxiety, but in general, the feeling around the camp for many was one of relief that the war was over, and we could go back to where we’d come from and start living our lives again. I was settled at the camp, it wasn’t such as bad place to be, and I’d pushed thoughts of going home to the back of my mind. Living in the Soviet Union still gripped me with fear.

‘
What about you, Stefan?’ Asked Jan, one of the Poles, ‘Are you looking forward to getting home?’

I looked at him carefully.

‘
Well, Jan,’ I replied, ‘It’s like this. We’ve just spent most of the last year running away from the Red Army, right?

He nodded and took another long pull on his cigarette.

‘
So, do you really think we want to go running back into Stalin’s arms?’

He looked a little taken aback. ‘But Stefan, surely you want to get back home just like the rest of us?’

‘
What do you think the Soviets will do to me? In their eyes, I’m a traitor. I ran away when I could have joined their Red Army. Maybe they’ll shoot me, maybe they’ll hang me. I don’t know. But even if I did get back home alive, I’m scared what I might find. I don’t know where my brother is, he was taken to Germany to work as a slave labourer. My father’s dead. I’m afraid to even wonder what might have happened to my mother. You see, the Red Army were advancing and my father and I had to make a run for it. We left her all on her own. Lord knows what’s become of her. I don’t like to think about it.’

Jan nodded, ‘I know. It’s the same for all of us. None of us knows what we’ll find when we get back.’

‘
Before the war started, we were systematically persecuted by the Soviets. We never knew what would happen from one day to the next. People just disappeared. Some of my best friends lost their fathers and brothers. They were either shot in the back of the head or shipped off to Siberia. That’s what they do.’

Jan shook his head and a frown etched itself over his face. ‘It’s not just Ukraine that’s suffered though, is it? Millions of Poles have been butchered, by the Nazis and the Soviets! We’ll probably never know how many.’

And so we talked, on into the night, just about every night. Not just Jan and I, but all the men. Each one had a different story to tell. There were frequent arguments, and sometimes even punches were thrown.

Sure enough, everyone had to face demons of one sort or another, and I don’t, for one minute, think it was any different for our neighbours in many ways, but those of us who had fled from Soviet rule faced a dilemma that was difficult. We’d been there before and it was brutal.

1946 arrived and we were all still at the camp, those first few months whistled past like a falcon chasing a field mouse. The daily routine of work and regular meals meant we were all regaining our health after our struggle to survive. Of course, we all wondered what our future might be, and it wasn’t long before whispers weaved their way to us. The camp had ears everywhere. Of course, you didn’t know how accurate the information was, but it was all we had. The word was that Stalin had issued a decree. He wanted all Soviet citizens to return, wherever they were. He’d officially asked the Allies to round up all of those who had, for whatever reason, left the Soviet Union. This news created tension around the camp. A group of us Ukrainians sat around, whenever we had the time, and talked about what might happen, ‘We can’t let them take us. It’ll mean certain death for us.’ Ivan rubbed the side of his head and lines popped out on his forehead as he spoke in hushed tones, ‘I was a guard at Janowska. It was terrible. They killed thousands of Jews there, just shot them as they were walking along, sometimes for no reason. I came close to getting shot myself, so, one day, I made a run for it. I really don’t know how I survived, but I’m here now, praise the Lord, but the Soviets aren’t any better than the Nazis. I’m afraid to go back.’

One of the older ones, a man called Oleksa, lifted a finger up to his lips, ‘We must be careful,’ he hissed, ‘we have to make sure we don’t end up in the hands of those communist sons of bitches. Right now, we must give the Americans as little information as possible. Until we know more. Until we can work out the best thing to do. Understood?’

We all nodded. And he was right. So, we went about our daily business, with our mouths tightly shut, but with our ears close to the wind. We needed to know what was happening.

Before long, the spring was with us once again, and things were changing. Oleksa was getting us all organised. He’d set up a number of facilities for us Ukrainians: a church service on a Sunday morning, cultural afternoons once a week on a Wednesday where we sang traditional songs and organised dancing with the younger boys and girls. Many of the people joined in these activities with much enthusiasm and heart, but there were also those who tried to use them as a diversion. One or two of the young men decided they’d try to make themselves some money by robbing nearby houses, or by hanging around the cookhouse to catch a moment when they could sneak in and steal food to sell. A network of criminal activity and black market dealings quickly established itself, but the Americans didn’t stand for any of that. They clamped down hard on these individuals and they were arrested and locked up. The relationship between the governing American army and the people in the camp grew a little more distant.

It wasn’t long before summer was upon us. I watched as Oleksa and a couple of the other men ran those young boys and girls through some traditional dance routines in the sunshine. There was one boy, he must have been about seven years of age, who was able to jump higher than the others, he could spin around faster, and leap around like a lion cub. Many afternoons I stood and watched him, and the others. One day, he came up to me and said, ‘Can you get me a drink, please? I’m thirsty.’ So I fetched him a cup of water.

‘
What’s your name?’ he asked before drinking down the water.

‘
Stefan,’ I replied, ‘what’s yours?’

‘
Taras. I love to dance, I’ve always liked it, as long as I can remember. My father taught me. He’s dead now.’

When I looked at that young boy, I saw a great future for Ukrainians. He had fire inside him and he wasn’t afraid to show it to the world or whoever was watching. Like him, we all needed to stand proud and lose the fear that had eaten into us after years of Soviet persecution, and that period of Nazi terror. To watch Taras and the other boys and girls as they danced and sang raised my spirits and locked my heritage deep into my heart. No one would ever take that away from me again, I was determined to uphold our traditions.