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

“I LOOKED AT THEM WITH A LITTLE GIRL’S EYES…”

Zina Gurskaya SEVEN YEARS OLD. NOW A POLISHER.

I looked at them with a little girl’s eyes. A little village girl. With wide open eyes…

I saw my first German closely…A tall man, blue eyes. I was so surprised: “Such a handsome one, and yet he kills.” It was probably my strongest impression. My first impression of the war…

We lived—mama, two little sisters, a little brother, and a hen. We had just one hen left, she lived with us in the cottage, she slept with us. Hid from the bombs with us. She got used to following us like a dog. No matter how hungry we were, we spared the hen. We starved so much that during the winter mama boiled an old leather coat and all the whips, and they smelled of meat to us. My little brother was a nursling. We cooked an egg in boiling water and gave him the water instead of milk. Then he would stop crying and dying.

Around us there was killing, killing, killing…People, horses, dogs…during the war all our horses were killed. All the dogs. True, the cats survived.

During the day the Germans would come: “Mother, give us eggs. Mother, give us lard.” There was shooting. During the night the partisans would come…The partisans had a hard time surviving in the forest, especially in winter. They knocked on the window during the night. Sometimes they took things peaceably, sometimes by force…They led away our cow…Mama wept. And the partisans wept…I can’t tell about it. I can’t, my dear. No, no!

Mama and grandma plowed like this: first mama put the yoke on her neck and grandma walked behind the plow. Then they changed places and the other became the horse. I wanted to grow up quickly. I was sorry for mama and grandma.

After the war there was one dog for the whole village (a stray one who stayed) and one hen, ours. We didn’t eat eggs. We collected them to hatch some chicks.

I went to school…I tore off a piece of old wallpaper—that was my notebook. Instead of an eraser—a cork from a bottle. We had beets in the fall, and we were glad because we could grate some beets and have ink. The gratings stand for a day or two and turn black. We had something to write with.

I also remember that mama and I liked to embroider in satin stitch, and always wanted to have gay little flowers. I didn’t like black threads.

I still don’t like the color black…