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

“…AN EXTRA HALF-SPOON OF SUGAR”

Emma Levina THIRTEEN YEARS OLD. NOW A PRINTER.

That day I was a month shy of fourteen years old…

“No! We won’t go anywhere. What an idea—war! Before we get out of town, it’ll be over. We won’t go! We wo-o-on’t!” So said my father, a party member since 1905. He had been in czarist prisons more than once, had taken part in the October Revolution.

But even so we had to leave. We gave the plants on windowsills a good watering (we had many of them), locked the windows and doors, only leaving a vent open so that the cat could go out when he wanted. We took the most necessary things. Papa persuaded everybody that we’d be back in a few days. Yet Minsk was burning.

Only my second sister didn’t go with us, she was three years older than me. For a long time we didn’t know anything about her. We worried. We were already in evacuation…In Ukraine…We received a letter from my sister from the front, then another and another. Later came a letter of appreciation from the commanders of the unit where she served as a medical assistant. My mother showed this letter to everybody! She was proud. In honor of the event the chairman of the kolkhoz issued us two pounds of forage flour. My mother treated everybody to tasty flatcakes.

We did all kinds of village work, though we were all true-blue city people. We worked well. My oldest sister, who had been a judge before the war, now learned to drive a tractor. But soon the bombing of Kharkov began, and we went farther on.

On our way we learned that we were being taken to Kazakhstan. Some ten families traveled in the same car with us. In one family the daughter was pregnant. The train was bombed, the planes came all of a sudden, no one had time to get out of the car. Then we heard a cry: the pregnant woman’s foot was blown off. This horror is still lodged in my memory. The woman went into labor…And her own father began to assist in the delivery. All that in front of everybody. Noise. Blood, dirt. A baby being born…

We left Kharkov in the summer, and we reached our final destination in winter. We came to the Kazakh steppes. For a long time I couldn’t get used to not being bombed and shelled. We had one more enemy—lice! Huge, middle-sized, small. Black! Gray! All sorts. But all equally merciless, leaving us no peace day or night. No, not so! When the train moved, they didn’t bite as badly. They behaved more or less quietly. But as soon as we were in a house…my God, what they did…My God! My whole back and arms were bitten and covered with ulcers. It got better when I took my blouse off, but I had nothing else to put on. In any case I had to burn this blouse, it was so infested, and I covered myself with a newspaper, and wore this newspaper in the guise of a blouse. The mistress of the house we stayed in washed me with such hot water that, if I were to wash with such water now, my skin would peel off. But then…It was such happiness—warm water. Hot!

Our mother was an excellent housewife, an excellent cook. Only she could prepare a gopher so that it became good to eat, though gopher meat isn’t considered edible. A gopher on the table…It stinks for a mile around, an unspeakably disgusting smell. But there’s no other meat, and we have nothing else. So we eat these gophers…

A very nice, kind woman lived next to us. She saw our sufferings and said to mama, “Let your daughter help me in the house.” I was very weak. She went to the field, and left me with her grandson, showed me where everything was, so that I could feed him and eat myself. I went to the table, looked at the food, but was afraid to take it. It seemed to me that if I took something, it would all disappear, that it was a dream. Not only did I not eat, I was even afraid to touch it with my finger—for fear it would cease to exist. I preferred to look at it, to look at it for a long time. I came from the side, or from the back. Afraid to close my eyes. I didn’t put anything in my mouth during the whole day. This woman had a cow, sheep, chickens. And she left me butter, eggs…

She came home in the evening and asked, “Did you eat?”

“Yes…”

“Go home then. And take this to your mama.” And she gave me some bread. “And come back tomorrow.”

I went home, and this woman came running after me. I got frightened: what if something’s missing? But she kissed me and wept.

“Why didn’t you eat anything, silly fool? Why is everything just where it was?” And she caressed me and stroked my head.

Winters in Kazakhstan are severe. We had nothing to burn in the stove. We were saved by cow dung. You get up early in the morning and wait till the cows come out, and you put the bucket under them. You run from one cow to another. I wasn’t alone, all the evacuated people were there. You fill the bucket, dump it out by your house, and hurry back. Afterward it’s all mixed with straw, dried, and the result is those black cakes. Kiziaks. We used them for heating.

Papa died. His heart probably broke from pity for us. He’d had a bad heart for a long time.

I was accepted to a technical school. They issued me a uniform: a coat, shoes, and—bread coupons. I used to have cropped hair, but now it grew back and I could braid it. They gave me a Komsomol card. Took a picture for a newspaper. I carried the card in my hands, not in my pocket. Such a treasure…I was afraid to put it in my pocket—what if I should lose it? My heart pounded: tock-tock-tock. How happy papa would have been if he could have seen me.

Now I think: “What a terrible time, but what extraordinary people.” I am amazed at how we were then! How we believed! I don’t want to forget it…I long ago lost my faith in Stalin, in communist ideas. I would like to forget that part of my life, but I keep those feelings in my heart. That loftiness. I don’t want to forget those feelings. They’re precious…

That evening at home mama made real tea, with tea leaves. Of course, it was such a feast! And I—as the cause of it—received an extra half-spoon of sugar…