Last Witnesses : An Oral History of the Children of World War II

“I GATHERED THEM WITH MY HANDS…THEY WERE VERY WHITE…”

Zhenia Selenia FIVE YEARS OLD. NOW A JOURNALIST.

That Sunday…June 22…

My brother and I went to pick mushrooms. It was the season for the best boletuses. Our wood was not big, we knew every bush in it, every clearing, and where what mushrooms grew, and what berries, and even flowers. Willow herb, Saint-John’s-wort, pink heather…We were already going home, when we heard a thundering noise. The noise came from the sky. We raised our heads: there were some twelve or fifteen planes over us…They flew high, very high; I thought our planes never flew so high. We heard the noise: rrrrr!

Just then we saw our mama, she was running toward us—weeping, in a broken voice. This is the impression that remained from the first day of the war—mama, instead of calling us gently as usual, cries, “Children! My children!” Her eyes are big, instead of a face—just eyes…

Some two days later a group of Red Army soldiers stopped at our farmstead. Dust-covered, sweaty, with caked lips, they greedily drank water from the well. How revived they became…How their faces brightened when four of our planes appeared in the sky. We made out distinct red stars on them. “Ours! Ours!”—we shouted along with the soldiers. But suddenly small black planes popped up from somewhere. They circled around ours, and something was rattling and booming. The strange noise reached the ground…as if someone was tearing oilcloth or linen fabric…So loud. I didn’t know yet that this was machine-gun fire heard from a distance or from high up. Our planes were falling and after them followed red streaks of fire and smoke. Ba-bang! The soldiers stood and wept, unashamed of their tears. For the first time I saw…for the first time…Red Army soldiers weeping…They never wept in the war films I used to go to watch in our settlement.

After another few days…Mama’s sister, Aunt Katia, came running from the village of Kabaki. Black, ghastly-looking. She told us that the Germans had come to their village, rounded up all the activists, led them outside the village, and shot them all with machine guns. Among those shot was mama’s brother, the deputy of the village council. An old Communist.

To this day I remember Aunt Katia’s words: “They smashed his head, and I gathered his brains with my hands. They were very white.”

She lived with us for two days. And told about it all the time…Her hair turned white in those two days. And when my mother sat with Aunt Katia, embracing her and weeping, I stroked her hair. I was afraid.

I was afraid that mama also would turn white…