Sliding on the Snow Stone (21 page)

As well as organising all the activities at the camp, somehow, Oleksa managed to compile a small library. Only about 20 or 30 books and pamphlets. They were all a bit battered and stained, which wasn’t surprising. After all, they’d been through the same journey as their owners.

I browsed through them one evening and, as if propelled by magnetism, my fingers plucked out a volume of poetry by Ivan Franko, one of my favourite writers. I flicked through it, and there they were! Wonderfully woven words lined up across the page. I closed the book and nodded to Oleksa. I signed the book he used as a loan record and the book was mine for a week.

The work at the barber shop eased off to some extent, because the camp was just about full. We were all given extra time off, a couple of afternoons a week, to engage in cultural activities, and sometimes, on such occasions, I’d take myself off to the edge of the camp. The camp was on a hill overlooking the old town and, once I’d walked through our perimeter, I saw some beautiful buildings dotted around. Some were wrecked by bombing, but many still stood with their majestic turrets and spires puncturing the clouds above them. I sat for an hour or two reading those poems, losing myself in the passion and the power of Franko’s words.
Kotlyarevsky
described the power and the force of the eagle and how the Ukrainian language was the same. My mother tongue always sang to me, with a grace and a beauty, but also with a burning flame. Franko’s words leapt off the page and flew into my heart like sparks from a fire. They were like medicine; they healed my mind and caressed my soul. By reading his works, I was reminded of the need for humanity, but also for boldness and courage. I felt a hurricane stir inside me. I’d never known freedom, but I’d read about those who’d battled for a free Ukraine, those fearsome Kozaks! They, and only they, filled the pages of our Ukrainian history with glory, but that was long ago. Since then, we’d become downtrodden and mistreated by our neighbours. Ukraine was like a shadow, like a man in fear of his own reflection. To be righteous, as Franko wrote, was the only way we Ukrainians would ever find our way to real freedom. Our time would come, I was sure of that.

I walked back to the camp thinking about those people who, like my good friend Sasha, still battled our enemies. I looked across to the East and I knew that, over there, the insurgents would be hiding in the mountains, stockpiling weapons and ambushing our enemies. My heart and my soul were with them. Not a day would pass without thinking what the future might bring.

One day, after reading that book on that hill, I returned to the camp just as a convoy of trucks roared in through the main gates, and I watched as soldiers unloaded boxes of supplies. I watched them and waited. They usually filled the trucks up with bags of rubbish and then roared off again. This time it was different. The soldiers left the tails down on the trucks and we were all marched out of our barracks and lined up. A Sergeant paced up and down in front of us with a soldier by his side carrying a notebook. The roll was called to make sure all were present, and a few stray persons were rounded up by the soldiers. Once we were all there, the Sergeant cleared his throat, ‘Right! We have an order here. The first group of Displaced Persons from this camp have been selected to return to the USSR. Due to limited resources, we have to take you guys home little by little. So, I have a list. When your name is called, step forward and climb into the back of one of the trucks. We’ll take you to get official travel documents, and you can then return here to get any possessions that you may have. Your journey home will begin from there.’ He beamed at us, flashing his big smile side to side. No one responded. In fact, we all stood there, stony faced. It was obvious no one wanted to hear their name called out. The Sergeant frowned. Maybe he sensed some unease from us. He cleared his throat again and proceeded to call out names. As I listened I breathed inside, and I breathed freely, because the names he called out were all from the first half of the alphabet. Some of those men took a small step forward and betrayed their identity. Others stood right where they were, and were pulled out of the line by soldiers who were able to identify them with the help of a clerk who held all the information on us in a large black file. The men were escorted into the trucks and driven away to the far side of the camp, to the large manor house used by the Americans as their base. The rest of us stood around, gazing over at it.

‘
It’s started,’ said Oleksa, ‘damn it, the Soviets are coming for us. We have to do something.’

‘
But what can we do?’ asked Jan.

‘
I don’t know, I really don’t know. Let’s wait and see what happens.’

So that’s what we did. The minutes passed so slowly. It was like waiting for milk to turn sour. Oleksa paced about, smoking cigarettes, and cursing the Soviets. Two long hours passed and then the trucks returned. We gathered around and watched as the men climbed out and were escorted into their barracks to get their personal belongings. One or two of the men struggled and tried to break free of the military escort, but were shoved back into line. Oleksa and some other men rushed over to them, ‘Hey! Hey!’ bellowed Oleksa. ‘Let these men go! They’ll be shot by Stalin’s men! You can’t let this happen!’

A Sergeant turned towards Oleksa and snarled, ‘Back off! We have our orders! Step back right now!’ He lowered his rifle and pointed it at Oleksa and the other men, and the soldiers did the same. Oleksa and the men backed away, merging into the larger crowd where I was standing. From there, several of the men around me raised their fists and shouted at the Sergeant, desperate for their friends to be freed. One or two stones were thrown, and the soldiers dodged them. The crowd began to surge forward despite the fact the soldiers were all pointing their rifles.

One of those soldiers stepped forward clumsily. He was a youngster, he couldn’t have been more than 16. He was shaking and beads of sweat trickled down his cheeks. He was trying to hold his rifle steady, but was trembling all over. We watched as he placed a finger on the trigger of his rifle. I half closed my eyes and tensed all my muscles. The whole crowd stood so still it was as if we were in a photograph, but then, in a blur of motion, the Sergeant stepped forward. ‘Step back Private!’ he roared, and he shoved the soldier’s rifle down so it pointed at the ground. The soldier stiffened at the sudden sound in his ear and reacted by stumbling forward, firing the rifle into the ground. The boom of the rifle and the aftershock caused us all to take few steps backwards, and it was like watching a film as the soldier screamed and blood spurted everywhere. He’d shot himself in the foot. The soldier threw himself to the ground writhing and crying out. The Sergeant barked orders to his men and some of them rushed off to get medical aid. One of the soldiers took off his jacket and wrapped it around the foot to stem the flow of blood. Another cradled the injured soldier and spoke to him to reassure him, to let him know that help was on its way. Before too long, a team of medical personnel came running across from the farmhouse and gave first aid to the wounded soldier, whose screams had subsided into whimpers.

In the middle of all this chaos, I noticed a group of men, six of them, break away from the escort. They ran off, unnoticed, and plunged into the cover offered by a group of trees at the side of the camp. Those of us who were onlookers saw all this and tried to remain impassive, to betray nothing with our faces. We all stood still, like bags of sand.

The Sergeant charged up and down issuing orders to his men, and order was restored in the space of minutes, but those minutes were enough for six to flee. I wondered what would become of them. Within a day or two, news filtered through. The Americans had quickly realised that some of their escort were missing and launched a manhunt. They found four of the escapees the next day, but two were never found despite strenuous efforts by the Americans. Day after day for a week, maybe two, search parties were seen to leave the camp early morning, returning empty handed as the sun set.

Oleksa got to work, as did all of us. We infiltrated every part of that camp. We had to know what was going on. The fear inside us was strong, it was something that crawled into every cell. We knew that Stalin would either kill us, or send us off to Siberia, to work in the salt mines. That knowledge was enough to keep us all sharp with our eyes and our ears. We saw everything, nothing passed us by. Anytime we saw soldiers or officers talking, we’d find a reason to get closer. Whether it was to take a bag of rubbish to the bins, or to collect something from stores. We were everywhere. Collecting scraps of information, little snatches of sentences, anything. And we remembered them; we held onto them like they were gold.

At least two of us had escaped and I hoped they’d got themselves onto the right road; away from the Soviets. At least they had the summer weather in which to travel. Often, I wondered what became of those two.

That summer was very hot and I spent as much time as I could outdoors. I’d read poetry, or join in some of the sporting activities. At least once a week we’d have a game of football, and on one occasion I remember a couple of fellows charging right across the pitch with half a dozen American soldiers in pursuit. No doubt, some misdemeanour had been committed and an arrest was about to take place. The Americans ran the base well, but were beginning to come down hard on the criminal fraternity. Keeping control of several thousand people who had been through Hell was no easy task.

Summer faded, autumn rustled past and then the winter was with us once again, as we waited to see what would become of us. To keep our spirits up, Oleksa organised a full programme of Christmas activities, including a show. The boys and girls were to perform their dances, a couple of the guys were lined up to tell jokes and there was much more entertainment planned.

One day, around that time, I was sitting outside my barrack with my nose in a book when a shadow loomed over me, it was Oleksa. ‘Stefan, you love your poetry don’t you?’

‘
Yes, I’ve always loved to read the work of our great Ukrainian poets. Doesn’t everyone?’

‘
Yes, but not as much as you. How do you feel about reading a poem for us at our Christmas show? It’ll be really good for everyone’s morale.’

‘
I-I don’t know. I’ve never read to an audience before.’

Oleksa fixed me with a look, ‘You know you have to do this, don’t you?’

Then he walked away. I knew I had no choice. To deliver an oration to inspire my fellow countrymen was something I could not turn away from. The show was scheduled to take place on 4th January, 1947, I had two weeks in which to prepare. Oleksa lent me half a dozen books from his library and, whenever I had a spare moment. I flicked through them. Eventually, I decided to read a section of Taras Shevchenko’s epic poem
Haidamaki
. I chose the first section of the epilogue; it wasn’t so long but it was a powerful part of the poem, with lines that needed to be delivered with passion. For the next ten days, in the early moonlit nights, I crept down to that spot down by the river and practised, pacing up and down.

The evening of the show arrived and I stood at the side of the stage in the big hall and ruffled Taras’s hair as he went onstage to perform his dance with the other boys and girls. He leapt around with his usual enthusiasm and vitality and, when they finished, I clapped along with the rest of the crowd. There were some loud cheers and whistles for those dancers.

‘
Good luck,’ said Taras as he came off the stage, because he knew I was onstage next. Oleksa introduced me with a few words and I stepped onto that stage. The poem I was about to read out was on sheets of paper I held in my hands, but to be honest, I didn’t really need them, each of those words were seared into my brain:

Much time has gone by, since a child a poor orphan,

In sacking and coatless, without any bread,

I roamed that Ukraine where Zaliznyak and Gonta

With sanctified sabres had wreaked vengeance dread.

Much time has gone by since, along those same highways

Where rode Haidamaki, exhausted and sore

I tramped through the country, its high roads and byways,

And weeping, sought people to teach me good lore.

As now I recall them, my youthful misfortunes,

I grieve that they're past! I would trade present fortune

If only those days could be brought back again.

Those evils, the steppes that seem stretching forever,

My father and grandfather old I remember

My father is gone, but my grand-dad remains.

On Sundays, on closing the book about martyrs

And drinking a glass with the neighbours, my father

Would beg of my grand-dad to tell us the story

Of the Haidamaki revolt long ago,

How Gonta, Zaliznyak once punishment gory

Inflicted on Poles.

And the ancient eyes glowed

Like stars in the night as the old man related

How gentry folk perished and how Simla burned

The neighbours from horror and pity near fainted.

And I, a wee fellow, the churchwarden mourned,

Yet, nobody noticed, all gripped by the horror,

The child that was weeping alone in the corner.

I thank you, my grand-dad, 'twas you that preserved