Last Witnesses : An Oral History of the Children of World War II (9780399588778)

“…AND THEY TAMPED IT DOWN WITH THE SHOVELS, SO IT LOOKED PRETTY.”

Leonid Shakinko TWELVE YEARS OLD. NOW AN ARTIST.

How they shot us…

They drove us all to the brigadier’s cottage…The whole village…A warm day, warm grass. Some stood, and some sat. The women wore white kerchiefs, the children were barefoot. People always gathered together at this place on festive occasions. Sang songs. The first day of harvest, the last day of harvest. Then, too, some stood, and some sat. Village meetings were held.

Now…no one wept…no one spoke…Even then it struck me. I had read that people usually cry or shout in the face of death—I don’t remember a single tear…Recalling it now, I’m beginning to think—maybe in those moments I became deaf and didn’t hear anything? Why were there no tears?

The children huddled in a separate little flock, though no one separated us from the grown-ups. For some reason our mothers didn’t keep us next to them. Why? To this day I don’t know. Usually we boys weren’t very friendly with the girls. The normal thing was: if it’s a girl, she’s got to be hit, or her braids pulled. Here everybody clung to each other. You understand, even the yard dogs didn’t bark.

Several steps away from us a machine gun was set up. Next to it two SS soldiers sat, began talking calmly about something, joking, and even laughing.

I remember precisely these details…

A young officer came up. And an interpreter translated, “Mister officer orders that you give the names of those who have connections with the partisans. If you keep silent, we’ll shoot you all.”

People went on standing or sitting where they stood or sat.

“In three minutes you’ll be shot,” the interpreter said and stuck up three fingers.

Now I was looking at his hand all the time.

“Two minutes—and you’ll be shot…”

People pressed closer to each other, they said things to each other, not in words, but by the movements of hands, of eyes. I, for instance, clearly imagined that we would be shot and that would be the end of us.

“One last minute—and you’re kaput…”

I saw a soldier release the lock, load the cartridge belt, and take the machine gun in his hands. Some were two yards away, some ten…

They counted off fourteen of those who stood nearest. Gave them shovels and ordered them to dig a hole. And we were driven closer, to watch them dig…They dug very quickly. Dust flew. I remember that the hole was big, deep, a full human height deep. Such holes are dug for a house, for a foundation.

They shot three people at a time. They stood them at the edge of the hole and fired point-blank. The rest of us watched. I don’t remember parents saying farewell to their children or children to their parents. One mother raised the skirt of her dress and covered her daughter’s eyes. But even the little children didn’t cry…

They shot fourteen people and began to fill up the hole. Again we stood and watched them cover the hole with earth, trample it with boots. And they patted it down with the shovels, so it looked pretty. Neat. You understand, they even rounded the corners, so it looked clean. One older German wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, as if he was working in a field. A little dog ran up to him…No one knew where it came from. Whose dog it was. He petted it…

Twenty days later we were allowed to dig up the dead. To have the family take and bury them. Then the women did cry, the whole village wailed. Lamented.

Many times I’ve stretched a canvas. I wanted to paint that…But something else came out: trees, grass…