Sliding on the Snow Stone (22 page)

The story I've told of the old Kozak glory:

And by the grandchildren it now will be heard.

The crowd of about 200 people clapped and a few cheered as I finished my oration. There were men and women in that audience who needed a shred of hope to cling onto, and maybe that’s what they got from me. That evening gave us more than just a Christmas show, it gave us a little piece of Ukraine right there in Germany.

It was in those early weeks of January 1947 that one or two convoys left the camp, carrying their human cargo of people returning home, but none of them were Ukrainians. The difference was that the Poles and the Czechs may have found tragedies on returning home, but they didn’t have to face a murderous dog like Stalin.

However, it wasn’t long before the Americans began, once again, to prepare some of us Ukrainians for our journey home. The group of men to be chosen on this occasion looked so downcast. They dragged their feet and their heads hung low. They were loaded into the back of one of the trucks and off they went. Some of them struggled and became violent, screaming and begging not to be sent back. The Americans used force to get them into the trucks and they roared away. Oleksa stubbed a cigarette out beneath his boot, ‘Okay, after work we all meet up, okay? I’ve got a plan. We’ve got to stop this.’

We all nodded and then went off to our respective workplaces. By this time I was well into my second year at the camp. Time had passed quickly. At lunchtime, I grabbed a sandwich and stepped outside to get some fresh air, even though the winter chill nipped away at me. I sat down on some upturned crates with a group of other men and we huddled together to talk and eat our lunch. All around the camp you could see others doing the same, a murmur of voices floated over us from all directions. Our calm was broken by the roar of a truck arriving at the main gate. We watched as they checked in at the guardhouse. Something about the driver and his mate seemed different. There was a lot of arm-waving and their faces were set hard, like they’d seen something that had unnerved them. The arm-waving was no different to normal, the Americans did a lot of that, but it was their faces that made some of us stand up. Something wasn’t right. Some of us younger boys raced after the truck. All the way to the farmhouse, which was just a small dot in the distance. We’d recovered from our war experience and were getting stronger by the day. Some of us ran over there without stopping. By the time we’d got across there, the soldiers had lowered the tail of the truck. We stood getting our breath back, the steam billowing in the cold wash of winter.

A pair of familiar looking men stepped out, two of the men who had left the camp earlier, destined for home. Why were they back? They jumped down and straightened their clothes. One of them turned and looked inside the truck, and then he turned around and covered his face with his hands. The other one pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with trembling hands, but at that point, one of the soldiers bellowed at him, ‘Hey! Put those goddam smokes away! We haven’t got time for that. Now both of you, jump back up there and get to work. Move!’

The man put the packet away, and he and his partner climbed back into the truck. There was a great deal of grunting as a wooden box was pushed out and the two soldiers took the load while the two men clambered out of the truck. The four of them carried the box into the farmhouse. We watched them, and it was clear to all of us that the box was exactly the right size and shape to contain a human body. We didn’t even have to say it to each other, it was as if the information flowed through all our heads at the same time.

The soldiers scowled at us as they carried the box, and they scowled again as they returned and, with their two helpers, hauled a second box of similar dimensions out of the truck. One of them waved his arms at us and tried to shoo us away, but we stood firm. We knew it was our own people inside those boxes. Don’t ask me how, we just knew, and we needed to know what had happened to them.

Later that evening, Oleksa’s meeting took place as he’d suggested earlier that day. Several of us gathered in the usual place, on a pile of crates and tea chests in a secluded corner near our barracks. This was where we regularly met to discuss plans for our futures. Ten o’clock was the usual time and we were all there, the usual gang, Jan, Ivan, several other young men and I, but there was one person missing. Oleksa. We sat and waited, we lit cigarettes and chatted. It was unlike him to be late. Eventually, he arrived, his shadow looming large in the moonlight, but he was not alone, another shadow walked beside him.

‘
Apologies for my late arrival, I’ve brought a guest.’ Oleksa and the other fellow sat down, and we all peered through the dimness until we could make out this man’s features. It was one of the men who had returned on the truck that afternoon with the two boxes! He sat fidgeting and swaying, like he had an itch inside him.

This was typical of Oleksa. The Americans would have taken steps to keep the two men apart from the rest of the camp, at least for a while, but through his contacts, Oleksa had managed to get to one of them and bring him to us. ‘This is Yanik. He’s come to talk to us. We need to welcome him. Has anyone got a smoke for him, and a drink, maybe?’

We all rustled through our pockets and several of us thrust cigarette packets at him. There was a glug glug from somewhere within that dark circle and a tin mug with
horilka
or something resembling the same was handed to him. He took a long pull on his cigarette and a swig from the mug, and then he didn’t look so nervous.

‘
So, can you tell us all what happened today?’ said Oleksa.

‘
I-I’ll try,’ replied Yanik. He took another long pull on his cigarette and exhaled, ‘it was terrible. Really terrible. You see, none of us really wanted to be on that truck. It was like sitting in a tomb on wheels. We sat and smoked all the while. No-one really had much to say. Well, what could we say? It was like we all knew we were on our way to either a bullet in the head, or years and years of hard labour in Siberia. But there was nothing we could do. There were soldiers with guns in those trucks with us. We were trapped. Anyway, we stopped after about two hours for a toilet break and a stretch. I think it was one of the American soldiers who wanted to stop.’ He paused to take another swig from the tin mug and to ask for another cigarette. He lit up and continued. ‘We were all standing around in a wooded area, and there were two youths with us who had been very quiet in the truck. They were both pacing up and down and trembling. They looked scared. There was terror in their eyes. So much that one of the Americans kept a close eye on them, I guess for fear they might make a run for it.’ 

Yanik paused again, ‘Then, we heard a roar in the distance. It was a truck heading towards us. It got closer, and we could see it was one of the American trucks coming down the road towards us, probably with supplies on board. All the soldiers turned and waved at the driver, and he waved back and grinned. Then it happened.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and ran his hands over his head. ‘We all watched as the driver stopped smiling and his expression switched to one of shock. There was a squeal of brakes as he tried to stop, but it was too late. You see, the two boys just threw themselves in front of the truck, and he smashed into them, and ran over them. They got flattened.’ Yanik sat there shaking his head, with pain showing on his face.

‘
Some of the guys turned away and threw up. I just stood there. Miroslav was right next to me, and we watched as the truck reversed. The two boys were squashed into the mud, with their bones poking through their skin. It was horrible. The soldiers got me and Miroslav to help with digging the bodies out, and they radioed for another truck to come and pick us up. The soldiers ordered me and Miroslav to go with them and help them. That’s why we’re back. At least we don’t have to go home now, not just yet anyhow, but I didn’t want to come back here like this, not as a coffin bearer for two young boys.’

As I listened to Yanik, and as his story unfolded, I found myself clenching my fists and breathing hard. Not only did Stalin butcher our people at will, he created such a fear inside people that they were driven to do thing like this. If I could have got hold of him there and then, I’d have throttled him with my bare hands, but I knew I would have been in a long queue of people who wanted to do the same.

We all mourned the passing of those two boys, they were both only 17 years old. From that time on, the Americans started to see things differently. They interviewed all of us. It was quite a lengthy process, but by this time we all knew what to say to them. Oleksa’s infiltration of the whole camp had been so slick and so polished, that we found out just about everything that was going on. We all said we were from the Western part of Ukraine, because we had inside information suggesting that was the best thing to say. I told them I was from Stanislaviv. They noted it on their records. So many of us went through that process, and we hoped and prayed we wouldn’t have to return to face Stalin’s jurisdiction, to be delivered to the people that carried out his murderous directives.

It took the Americans just over a year to plan everything, right through to the summer of 1948, but then my prayers were answered when they took me in for a final briefing.

‘
Well, Stefan, your documents are ready.’ said a man in plain clothes whose name I cannot recall. ‘Now, you have a choice. As a refugee of the War and also because you originate from Stanislaviv, you can take up residence in a number of different countries, as you know. You’ve seen the list?’ I nodded. ‘Good, then what is your chosen destination?’

I hesitated. I’d been given a list to choose from a few days before, and I reckoned I’d made my mind up, but was it the right one? There was Belgium, the United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, Israel, France, Venezuela, Brazil, Argentina and the United States. I’d done a lot of thinking. I didn’t want to go as far as Australia or Canada, and although I liked the Americans, the United States was also too far. I still held onto a faint hope that one day I would be able to return home, to my beloved Ukraine. I didn’t want to be too far away. The South American countries were also too far. I reasoned to myself that, because I’d been in the camp nearly four years and picked up a bit of English, maybe the United Kingdom would be the best place to go. Many others in the camp were making the same choice.

‘
Well?’ said the man, tapping his pen on his clipboard.

‘
United Kingdom.’ I replied, and that was that. He made a note on a sheet of paper,

‘
Fine. Okay, you’ll need to inform Victor at the barber’s shop, and make sure you’re ready to go. We’ll provide you with a few essentials, like some extra clothes and a bag, and you’ll leave in two days, okay?’

‘
Okay.’

I went straight from there to the barber shop and told Victor. He gave me a big bear hug and said he’d miss me. He said it would be like losing a son. He gave me a small holdall with a set of clippers, scissors and such-like, for cutting hair,

‘
Stefan, you’ve been a good worker. Take these, and if you get short of money, you can cut hair and earn for yourself. Take care and best of luck.’ As I walked away, he still had that huge grin spread over his face. I’d miss Victor, but the time had come to leave. It didn’t take long to pack, so I just had to say goodbye to my friends.

‘
The rest of us will be leaving soon, Stefan.’ Oleksa had an arm around my shoulders. ‘I know this place has been good to you, but it’s just a temporary camp. In the end, we’ll all be transported away from here, but there is one thing that will always unite us. Our Ukrainian blood. One day, Ukraine will be free. We may not live to see that day, but we must fight to keep our traditions alive.’

As always, Oleksa was right. The battle wasn’t over. It would never be over. On the morning of my departure, almost three years after arriving, I climbed into a truck and left. To another foreign land, and to a new life.

Chapter 12

Ukrainian proverb: Our boots will find their way

I’d walked about a thousand miles to stay out of the Soviets’ reach, most of it with the violent sounds of the War ringing in my ears. There were no more booms of distant bombs exploding anymore; or whistles of rockets flying past. There was just the steady drone of trucks, driving up and down the roads, moving people from place to place, trying to establish some order from the chaos.

Some of the men, in the back of the truck I was in, chattered with excitement,

‘
England. I reckon it’ll be a good place,’ said a young man called Marko, ‘it’s one of the richest countries in the world. I reckon we’ll all make a pile of money there, if we work hard.’

‘
I don’t know about that, my friend,’ replied an older man, Yarema. ‘They’ll want to look after their own first. We’ll be getting the worst jobs, the dirtiest work. Just you wait and see. And they won’t be paying us in gold bars, so you can forget about getting yourself dressed up in any fancy clothes or fine silks.’

Others in the back of the truck sat quietly, it was to be a long journey. The excitable ones, such as Marko, settled down after we’d been on the road for a couple of hours. Yarema reckoned it was about a thousand miles or so to the United Kingdom. I smiled when he said that. At least this time, I’d be transported in relative comfort, whether by road, rail or boat, with a roof over my head and enough to eat.

Even so, I was hurtling further and further away from my home, towards the unknown, into a new world, where the language would be different. I had to thank Father for at least teaching me some basic English. When I was just a boy he’d say to me, in English, ‘Come on, John.’

That phrase meant an English lesson was coming my way. He taught me how to count from one to ten, how to say yes and no, please and thank you. That was about all. But, when you’re in a camp like we’d been, you became a good observer and a good listener. I’d also picked up a quite a few phrases from the Americans.

Wherever I was and whatever language was spoken, my heart and soul would always be Ukrainian. Inside, I was torn apart, because a large part of me wanted to go home. I missed Mother, but I didn’t know what might have happened to her. Father and I had left her at the mercy of the marauding Soviets. It turned me cold just thinking what those barbarians might have done with her. A veil of great shame hung over me to think that we’d left her behind, even though she’d refused to come with us. I tried to convince myself she was a clever one, one that would be able to either hide herself, or tackle the marauders face-to-face and, somehow, send them away, but deep inside I was in turmoil. At times I feared the worst and had to shut out images in my head of Soviet soldiers barging into our home and making Mother scream and struggle. The thought of it made me sick. It turned me into a statue. I couldn’t move or breathe and just sat in the back of that truck, with the pain of those thoughts entering every inch of my body, rendering me lifeless. If someone was to dig a grave right then, I’d have jumped into it and gladly let the soil cover me, until I was so far below ground I could escape the thoughts that threatened me.

‘
Everybody out!’ A sergeant hollered at us, as the tail of the truck was lowered. Our journey had reached its first stop. We clambered out with our meagre belongings, which we grasped in small bundles or in fraying bags. We’d arrived at a train station.

We looked up in wonder at the twisted turrets and the gilded glass, and climbed aboard a train to continue our journey. It was like a fairy tale, the whole thousand miles was like a dream. We jumped onto another train further down the line, until we arrived at the French coast. A night boat took us across the Channel to the shores of England. We walked off that boat at around six in the morning. A warm summer breeze curled itself around us as we tramped down the gangway. A blazing sun threw streaks of gold at us, and above us flocks of huge white birds screeched away,

‘
Hey!’ Marko tried to reach up towards one of them and seize back the hunk of bread that had been expertly plucked from his fingers. I found out, not long afterwards, that these birds were seagulls, and masters of scavenging from unsuspecting visitors. Their piercing squawks were our welcome to the United Kingdom.

We were registered in a wooden cabin. There were two tables with clerks to check us through. We queued up, our papers were scrutinised, and they waved us through. I looked down at the document as it was placed back in my hand, I saw the date. It was the 1st August 1948. I was just a few weeks away from my 21st birthday.

Each of us was given a shilling as our papers were handed back to us. Marko held up his coin and looked at it, turning it to see both sides. Yarema laughed, ‘Marko, so this is your first step to that fortune you were talking about, eh?’

‘
It doesn’t look like it’s worth much, how long do you think it’ll last us?’ replied Marko.

‘
I really don’t know,’ smiled Yarema, ‘but don’t spend it too quickly, will you?’

We all held up the coins to get a closer look. There was the King’s head on one side, and a lion above a crown on the other, images of a royal kingdom. It felt like we’d arrived in a whole different world to the one we’d come from. The way we’d been treated by the Allies made me think that life in the west would be considerably more civilised than under the communists.

Another group of escort trucks was waiting on the other side of the wooden cabin, and we were marched across to them. It was to be yet another two or three hours on the road, and I, like most of the others, was wearying of life in the back of a truck. I wanted to be somewhere, get settled, and start living some kind of life. Just sitting around thinking wasn’t good for me.

Eventually, we arrived at a small town called Market Drayton. There was a camp there, which looked just like any other army base. As we climbed out of the truck, there was a warm and sticky breeze, as if the air was tinged with the stale sweat of a punch drunk boxer knocked out in the last round of a prize-fight. Our escort took us across to a group of barracks, and we saw a group of them hanging around. Nazi prisoners. They must have been the last few left, waiting to go back. They walked past us, dragging their feet and looking down at their boots. I turned towards them as they passed, and felt myself tensing up. I drew a fist back.

‘
Stefan,’ a heavy arm wrapped itself around me and pulled me away, ‘you don’t need to do this. It’s over. Let the war tribunals deal with these men. You’ll only end up getting yourself in trouble.’

Yarema was right. I was so angry though. The fires of my rage were burning inside. The war had, first of all, taken me away from everything and then snatched away whatever was left. Inside me, my Kozak blood was boiling. I swear I could have killed those Germans there and then, crushed them underneath my boot, just like their nation had crushed our nation. The German soldiers passed us by, and I pushed Yarema away and scowled at him. He was right, I knew he was, but would never have admitted it to him. He continued, ‘We have to find another way, war isn’t the answer. Surely we know that now?’

There was nothing I could say to that, I just turned and walked off. Those words stuck inside my head though. His observation had a truth about it. If there was one thing I’d learned through the last few years, it was the ugliness of war.

The base at Market Drayton was our home for a brief period until we were assigned our final destination. As with many of the countries in Europe, Britain had a shortage of manpower, a shortage of food and lots of rebuilding to do. Clearly, as refugees we would play our part in that. The youngsters, such as Marko, were keen to get going. ‘I wonder where we’ll end up,’ he speculated as he paced up and down in our wooden barrack, which was our accommodation during our stay there. The rest of us sat around smoking and drinking watery tea from tin mugs. He sent us dizzy with his pacing, ‘London, that’s where I’d like to go. That’s where the big money’ll be. It’s the capital, after all.’ He was so full of hope, his eyes were wide open all the time, like a bright-eyed puppy’s.

‘
Relax, kid.’ Yarema was frowning, and that was unusual, he rarely got flustered. ‘You’re giving me a headache. I’ve already told you, we’ll all have to work hard to make any real money here. From what I’ve heard, Britain took a beating from the Nazis. Some of their towns and cities are wrecked. There will not be a lot of money around for you to get your hands on.’

Marko carried on pacing, almost as if he hadn’t heard Yarema. All of us breathed easier as he stepped outside for some air.

Finally, a couple of days later, we got the news we’d been waiting for. A line of us formed once again in front of a table in the mess hall. An official informed me that I was to go to work on farms in a nearby county called Worcestershire. My shoulders dropped. Marko’s enthusiasm had infected me. I guess I’d have liked to be in the excitement of a city, with all its busy noise and big buildings. Of course, I accepted my fate, as a good Ukrainian always does, and braced myself to make the best of it. After all, I had plenty of experience in farm work.

The next day I took my place in the back of yet another truck, it was to be my final journey in the back of those army trucks. My destination was to be a place called Clifton on Teme. There were a dozen of us all headed there, and it was in the back of that truck I made friends with a couple of fellows who would become part of my life for many years. I didn’t know it at the time, but Mikola, Fedor and I would become good friends.

Six of us were dropped at a hostel in Clifton on Teme, Mikola, Fedor, myself and three Poles, Pawel, Otto and Karel. It was basic accommodation, the six of us shared a room. There was a small kitchen and bathroom and breakfast was provided for us at seven o’clock, before we went to work.

There were a number of farms in the area, and transport came daily to take us to them. The first one we went to was the Robinson farm. Mr Robinson lived there with his wife. They were both around the same age as my own mother and father. There was a sadness about them, and many times I wondered what their story was, but we were only ever allowed into the kitchen for our lunchtime meal, never into the other rooms in the farmhouse, so I never ever saw very much, certainly nothing that would give any clues to their life, past or present.

Mr Robinson was friendly to us, but firm from the start. He had cows, sheep and pigs, as well as several acres of crops. The six of us worked from dawn to dusk every day. To keep us going, Mrs Robinson kept us well fed, her generous lunches were the best I’d had for some time. Sometimes we’d be sent off to other farms for a week or two, but most of the time we were at the Robinsons.

Our wages weren’t much, as Yarema predicted. Each week we were paid a small amount, I can’t recall how much it was, but I guess it reflected the fact that we got free board at the hostel, and some free meals at the farms. It was right at the peak of a beautiful English summer when we first arrived, with golden fields all around us, dotted with lush, green pastureland. One of our first jobs was to bring in the harvest. It was back-breaking work. There was an occasion, on the second day of our stay there, in the blistering heat of the afternoon, when our spirits rose as we saw Mrs Robinson approaching with a tray of drinks. Each of us picked up a glass full of a pale, yellow liquid. We all took several big gulps, and then stood gasping, with our eyes beginning to water. It was so sour! Very different to the sweet fruit compote we had back home. We forced it down though, so as not to offend Mrs Robinson. Over time, we found out this was lemonade, English style, and I grew to like it.

Now and again, the three of us, Mikola, Fedor and I, would walk on down to the village. Sometimes our three Polish friends would join us, but that made us more conspicuous, walking around in a big gang. The village people would stare at us. Some would cross the road if they saw us approaching, so we quickly realised it was better to get around in smaller groups. There wasn’t a great deal in the village: a Post Office, a Village Store and a Garage. We bought cigarettes at the Store. Of course, at first, we didn’t have much of a clue about the money so just held out a handful of coins. The Storekeeper squinted at us suspiciously and then picked out a few. Lord knows whether he took the right amount or just helped himself to however much he wanted. Towards the far end of the village were a church and a small schoolhouse. There the village ended. After we’d been there a few times the villagers soon worked out who we were and some even greeted us as we passed them by.

There was an inn in the village called the Lion. We got into the habit of going there at the end of the week, usually on a Saturday night. The first time we went there, we walked through the door and were met with a silence and all eyes upon us. We walked up to the bar. It was busy. The three of us waited until our turn came and then the barman looked at Mikola, ‘Yes?’

‘
Beer?’ replied Mikola

The barman then listed all the different beers available there, far too many for us to make any sense of. Mikola was a clever one though, he tapped his hand on one of the pumps, just as he’d seen one of the locals do, and we ended up with three pints of a dark ale with a foamy head.

Ignoring the whispers and sly glances from around us, we found a quiet corner and sat down. We were beginning to understand more and more of the language, but at times it paid to pretend you didn’t understand, particularly when you heard whispered phrases such as
bloody foreigners
slipping through the smoky haze.