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

“WE PLAYED, AND THE SOLDIERS WEPT…”

Volodia Chistokletov TEN YEARS OLD. NOW A MUSICIAN.

It was a beautiful morning…

Morning sea. Blue and calm. The first days since my arrival at the Soviet-Kvadge children’s sanatorium on the Black Sea. We heard the noise of the airplanes…I dove into the waves, but there, under the water, the noise could still be heard. We weren’t frightened, but began to play “war,” not suspecting that somewhere war was already going on. Not a game, not a military exercise, but war.

A few days later we were sent home. Mine was in Rostov. The first bombs were already falling on the city. Everybody was preparing for street fighting: digging trenches, building barricades. Learning to shoot. We children guarded the boxes for storing bottles of explosive mixture, delivering sand and water in case of a fire.

All the schools were turned into hospitals. Our school No. 70 housed the field army hospital for the lightly wounded. Mama was assigned there. She was allowed to take me along, so that I didn’t stay at home alone. And when there was a retreat, we went wherever the hospital went.

After one bombing I remember a pile of books among the rubble. I picked one up that was called The Life of Animals, a big book with beautiful pictures. I didn’t sleep all night, reading it, unable to tear myself away…I remember I didn’t take any war books, I didn’t want to read about war. But about animals, about birds…

In November 1942…The head of the hospital ordered that I be issued a uniform, but to tell the truth, it had to be urgently made over to fit. And they spent a whole month looking for boots for me. So I became the foster child of the hospital. A soldier. What did I do? The bandages alone could drive you crazy. There was never enough of them. I had to launder, dry, and roll them up. Try rolling up a thousand a day! I got the hang of it and did it quicker than the adults. My first rolled up cigarette also came out well…On my twelfth birthday the first sergeant, smiling, handed me a package of shag, as if I was a full-grown soldier. I did smoke it…On the sly from mama. I showed off, of course. Well…it was also scary…I had a hard time getting used to blood. Was afraid of burned men. With black faces…

After a train transporting salt and paraffin was bombed, the one and the other proved useful. The salt went to the cooks, the paraffin to me. I had to master a skill unspecified in any lists of military professions—making candles. That was worse than the bandages. My task was to make sure the candles burned for a long time, because they were used whenever there was no electricity. Doctors didn’t stop surgery either under the bombs or under shelling. During the night the windows were curtained with sheets or blankets.

Mama wept, but all the same I dreamed of escaping to the front. I didn’t believe I could be killed. Once I was sent to get bread…We had just set out when artillery shelling began. It was mortar fire. The sergeant was killed, the coachman was killed, and I got a concussion. I lost speech, and when after a while I began to speak again, I stuttered. I still stutter. Everybody was surprised that I was still alive, but I had a different feeling—how could I be killed? I went with the hospital through the whole of Belarus, through Poland…I learned some Polish words…

In Warsaw…A Czech turned up among the wounded—a trombonist from the Prague Opera. The head of the hospital was glad of him, and when the man began to recover, he asked him to go around the wards and look for musicians. He came to us with an excellent orchestra. He taught me to play the viola, and I taught myself to play the guitar. We played and the soldiers wept. We played merry songs…

So we reached Germany…

In the ruins of a German village I saw a child’s bicycle lying about. I was happy. I got on it and rode. It rode so well! During the war I hadn’t seen a single child’s thing. I forgot they existed. Children’s toys…