Sliding on the Snow Stone (3 page)

Of course, the man broke down and it soon became clear. It was human meat. People were killing their children and eating them. Later that evening, I lay in bed and heard Father’s voice from down below,

‘
Those damned Soviet sons of bitches! Look what they’ve done to us! They’ve turned us into beasts. I know that man who killed his own children, he works at the factory with me, but look what he’s done!’

I heard another voice, it sounded like Petro, Bohdan’s father,

‘
How could anyone do that to their own children though, eh? When we lost Bohdan, it would never have entered our heads to do anything like that! It’s the work of the devil!’

‘
Yes and that particular devil’s name is Stalin!’ thundered Father.

I didn’t sleep so well that night. I drifted in and out of dreams, where images of the man who’d killed and eaten his own children kept appearing. There he was, only a few feet away, waving a carving knife in front of a twisted stare, and with his face sliced into a gap-toothed grin. I woke up screaming and ran to Mother in the bed she shared with Father. She hugged me and calmed me down. Those nightmares continued for many nights.

Somehow our family survived. While all around us people were dying. We were lucky, I guess. We made sure our cow got fed and, in return, she gave us milk. Mother made up the soup. Maybe it wasn’t the tastiest soup I’ve ever had, but when you’re hungry you savour it well enough.

Sometimes, Mother would send me along to the factory to take some of the milky broth to Father for his lunch. It was hardly a meal fit for a working man, but it was more than most of the others got. I could sense some unease from him as I gave him the jar of broth. There were other men around who could smell the aroma of warm food and all eyes shifted across to where we were, like cats eyes squinting through the gloom. I could feel them peering out of every corner of that place when that jar of soup arrived. Father drank it down quickly, gave me the jar back and I hurried away. It felt shameful somehow, to be bringing food for my father when others went without.

So, this was how my life began. I was born into a catastrophe, but I didn’t know it at the time, I just thought this was our life.

Chapter 2

Ukrainian proverb: Those sitting above can easily spit on those below

At first, all we could see was a speck in the distance. We watched, and we had an idea what was happening; it wasn’t the first time.

‘
They’re coming! They’re coming!’

Miron stood in front of us breathing hard. We’d just watched him run all the way down the full length of the road that ran from the village into Vinnitsya. It was a straight stretch of road, it must have run for about a half a mile. It always seemed like a long way to me. Like it stretched on and on to the rest of the world.

Volodimir and I, and some other boys were playing a game of football with an old ball that was past its best. At the age of seven I was the youngest, so the older boys always chose me to be goalkeeper. I didn’t mind anyway. I liked throwing myself around.

It was two years after the famine. We had a little bit more to eat, not a great deal, but people weren’t starving to death anymore. We were getting stronger and when we saw Miron standing in front of us, and heard his words, it was a call to arms. The older boys took control. They sent us little ones back into the village to get as many boys as we could and bring them to join us. The Moscali were on their way!

The Moscali were the Soviet boys that lived in the town. Every now and then they would walk out of the town up to where we lived in the village. They thought they could lay into us. They had some stupid idea in their heads they could beat us. We were having none of that and collected as many boys together as possible and waited. As the seconds ticked by we became more and more determined.

‘
Come on you Moscali! Come and get some!’ we hollered down the road, ready for anything. They’d need to kill us, each one of us, before we gave up, or before we’d let them get past us.

It wasn’t too long before they came into view. There were about 20 of them, and we had about the same number. It would be an even fight. Well, it would have been if they weren’t such a bunch of soft city boys. As they got closer we saw their slicked back hair, and their fancy shirts and trousers. They thought they were really something, so we did what we always did. We shouted at them, ‘Katsap! Katsap!’ and made bleating noises, mocking them.

They hated that, because katsap* means billy goat. Now, that may not seem like such a big insult these days, but the Moscali boys hated it. It got right under their skin. They really saw themselves as refined and modern, so to be mocked as farm animals was like spitting in their faces. We could see the wounded look in their eyes as we yelled and mocked them. So they called back, ‘Hohli! Hohli!*’

This was another word for billy goat, but also referred to the Kozak haircut. Somehow they thought this would belittle us, but it made us laugh even more. Was that the best they could come up with? These boys with their city education and sophisticated ways. We laughed louder and flapped our hands at them to show our scorn.

Then they started. Big stones flew through the air at us, and we had to be quick to dodge them. But then
we
started. A supply of big stones was all ready. My job was to pass them up to the bigger boys. I darted back and forth to keep the supply line well fed much of the time but every now and then one of the boys would turn to me, ‘Come on Stefan! We need more stones!’ It was at times like this when I thought of Bohdan. He would have helped if he was still around. He was so quick on his feet he would have lifted twice as many stones as me and passed them up to the bigger boys. Mind you, I expect he’d have wanted to be stood at the front throwing the stones at the Moscali.

Our boys launched the stones as if they were firing rockets, straight and true. Volodimir was right at the front and was our best thrower. He had big broad shoulders and was built solid like a barn. He hit a couple of the Moscali boys, one square on the chest and the other on his arm. They both scrambled away.

The Moscali boys scattered and tried to regroup. Some carried on throwing at us, but stones were flying through the air at them non-stop. They couldn’t cope.

The battle raged and, amid the hail of stones, two of the older boys in our group reached inside their jackets and pulled out sawn-off shotguns. The boys throwing stones at the front stepped aside. Those holding the shotguns stepped through the gap and took aim in the general direction of the Moscali. They fired. We covered our ears as the twin blast of the sawn-off shotguns echoed all around us. Two arcs of fire flashed over the heads of the Moscali. They all threw themselves onto the ground, and then ran like rabbits as wisps of gun smoke hung in the air. They fled. Back where they came from.

We all jumped and cheered as they retreated back down the road, until they just looked like a swarm of flies in the distance. We wiped the sweat off our brows with our sleeves or with our shirts as we walked back into the village. Our heads were high and we smiled and joked with each other. The evening sun beat down on us. The older boys lit cigarettes and each bragged about how many Moscali he had hit. I enjoyed listening to their talk. It was a victory for all of us. It lifted us for a day or two. It made us feel like we were a force to be reckoned with. Volodimir and I went home, and after a big mugful of hot milk, we went to bed with the glow of victory still warming us inside.

Following one such occasion I remember waking up the next morning feeling elated, just like I always did. The stone fights with the Moscali didn’t occur that often, maybe every few months, but it was enough to stir the Kozak blood inside us. Even with the Soviet boot trampling all over us we found a way to fight back. Driving the Moscali boys away showed that we could defend ourselves. In reality of course, the overwhelming might of the Soviets was too much for our nation. The stone fight victories were just a shred of hope, a flicker of something.

I got dressed and went downstairs and sat down at the kitchen table. The smell of warm bread filled the room. It made my mouth water, it always did. Mother was standing by the stove heating up some milk. She looked across at me and we said ‘good morning’ to each other with a smile.

I sat and watched her as she busied herself around the stove and the cupboards. Her hair was tied back and flowed like a waterfall down her back. It was black as a raven, the same as my own untidy mop. I loved to watch her. She opened up one of the cupboards and lifted some plates out and placed them on a table. She moved so gracefully. Then she turned to me, ‘Stefan, fetch me some more logs from the yard, please.’

Without hesitation, I stood up. For her, I would have done anything, my beloved Mother. I would have walked through fire, through storms, across deserts or through deep waters, anything at all for her. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes with the backs of my hands, yawned and stepped out of the door to our yard. There was a chill in the air that summer morning so I didn’t hang around and collected a bucket of logs from our shed and carried them back in. I knelt down by the stove, opened the grate, and fed a few logs in watching the flames lick around them, enjoying their warm glow. Mother came and stood next to me to check the milk. She removed it from the stove and poured it into cups. She put the pan down and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. I jumped up and wrapped myself around her. I can still remember her warm aroma even now. She ruffled my hair and picked me up. She looked into my eyes and we smiled at each other.

‘
Stefan, you have such beautiful blue eyes. Just like your father. You’re my lovely, beautiful, blue eyed boy.’

I loved the softness of her voice. I could have listened to her talk all day. She sat me back down on a chair and brought me over a cup of steaming hot milk. I blew on it to cool it down. Mother sliced some bread, buttered it and set down a couple of slices on a plate in front of me. It may not sound like much of a breakfast but, believe me, this was a feast compared to what we had during the years of the Holodomor.

A few mouthfuls later it was all gone, and I washed it down with the hot creamy milk. Of course I asked for more, but Mother just looked at me and said, ‘Later Stefan, later. Now go and get ready for school. And tell your brother to get out of bed. You’ll both be late if you don’t get moving!’

I got up and went to the bedroom I shared with Volodimir, put on my jacket and picked up my schoolbag. Volodimir was already sitting up in bed with his elbows on his knees.

‘
You’re going to be late for school again and Father won’t like it if he finds out.’ I said.

‘
Don’t worry Stefan, I’ll get there on time today.’ He looked at me and grinned. I knew what he was thinking and I grinned right back. We didn’t need to say anything, but we were both still feeling good about the stone fight with the Moscalis.

He said, ‘You get going Stefan, and I’ll catch you up.’

‘
Okay.’

He leapt up out of the bed and stood stretching his arms around his head. I left him to get dressed and walked back out into the hallway, and put my shoes on. Then I grabbed a kiss off Mother and left for school. I walked down our path and stepped out onto the street.

There was a golden sun in the sky, it was still rising, but the morning was still a little chilly, so I didn’t hang around. I put my head down and marched on. I knew I would probably meet up with some of my friends along the way, but I didn’t expect Volodimir to catch me up. It always took him a long time to get himself up and about in the mornings. Not like me. As soon as I woke up and opened my eyes I was ready for the day. I wanted to get dressed, get as much breakfast down me as I could and then I just wanted to be out there.

No one else was around this particular morning. The street was completely deserted. That suited me. Sometimes, I liked to feel as though I was the only person in the world, walking along with the birds singing in the trees, with the road stretching out in front of me and a horizon waiting for me. What would the day bring?

The school was right on the other side of the village, it took about half an hour to get there. So I walked along. A gentle breeze shook the leaves in the trees around me.

I didn’t mind going to school, not that I would have admitted it to my brother or my friends, but, in actual fact, they were the reason I liked it. Break times were the best times. We’d play football or running games in the schoolyard. We’d tease each other and there would be the occasional fight when things went too far. But despite any differences we may have had, and putting aside any disagreements or hostilities that may have taken place, we knew we were all brothers and sisters. Descended from Kozaks. Our time would come one day, that’s what we believed. We had to. Whatever the Soviets did to us we had to keep our faith, and our identity as Ukrainians.

Aside from the games we played, there were other things at school that were beginning to have a real effect on me. In my schoolbag I had a battered copy of the poems of Taras Shevchenko. Many of them I knew off by heart. They’d planted themselves right inside me. As long as I live his words will echo inside me. The images he conjured up of our beautiful land were so true. The majestic honesty of his poetry stirred up a storm inside me. I’d never felt such passions. The way he used words was like a Kozak would use them. It was as if he had dug them up from the soil. There was a rawness, a wonderful earthiness. He touched the whole Ukrainian nation with his words. Shevchenko was a visionary, he gave us ideas like no one else, and he made us think about our place in the world:

The days pass, the nights pass,

As does summer. Yellowed leaves

Rustle, eyes grow dim,

Thoughts fall asleep, the heart sleeps,

All has gone to rest, and I don’t know

Whether I’m alive or will live,

Or whether I’m rushing like this through the world,

For I’m no longer weeping or laughing…

My fate, fate, where are you now?

I have none;

If you begrudge me a good one, Lord,

Then give me a bad one!

Let a walking man not sleep,

To die in spirit

And knock about the entire world

Like a rotten stump.

But let me live, with my heart live

And love people.

And if not… then curse

And burn the world!

It’s horrible to end up in chains

To die in captivity,

But it’s worse to be free

And to sleep, and sleep, and sleep—

And to fall asleep forever,

And to leave no trace

At all, as if it were all the same

Whether you had lived or died!

Fate, where are you, fate where are you?

I have none!

If you begrudge me a good one, Lord,

Then give me a bad one! A bad one!

While I was walking along, with my eyes following those words across the page, from the corner of one eye I saw a figure emerge from one of the side streets. I looked across and saw it was one of the older boys of the village, one of Volodimir’s friends. He was walking slowly with his head bowed. At the junction, I stopped and waited for him. He stopped a few yards away. It was Sasha, one of the boys who blasted a shotgun at the Moscali only the day before. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. It wasn’t like Sasha to cry. He was a hero to me. Sasha was fearless, he’d take anyone on. If there were ten Moscali in front of him he’d fly into them like a hurricane. Never before had I seen him like this, I didn’t know what to say or do, but eventually, after an awkward moment which hung in the air like an over-ripe apple on a tree, I took a step towards him and said, ‘Sasha, what’s the matter?’