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

“I SCREAMED AND SCREAMED…I COULDN’T STOP…”

Liuda Andreeva FIVE YEARS OLD. NOW AN AUDITOR.

The war left me with the impression of a bonfire…Burning and burning. Endlessly…

We little children would get together, and you know what we talked about? That before the war we had liked sweet rolls and tea with sugar, and that we would never have them again.

Our mamas often wept, they wept every day…So we tried to cry less than in peacetime. We fussed less.

I knew that my mama was young and beautiful. Other children’s mamas were older, but at the age of five I understood that it was bad for us that mama was young and beautiful. It was dangerous. I figured it out at the age of five…I even understood that it was good that I was little. How could a child understand that? Nobody explained anything to me…

After so many years…I’m afraid to remember it…to touch it…

A German truck stopped by our house, not on purpose, but something broke down in it. The soldiers came into the house, sent me and grandma into another room, and made mama help them. They boiled water, cooked supper. They spoke so loudly that it seemed to me they weren’t talking together and laughing, but yelling at my mama.

It was evening, already dark. Nighttime. Suddenly mama runs into the room, grabs me, and runs outside. We had no garden, the courtyard was empty, we ran around and didn’t know where to hide. We got under the truck. They came out and looked for us with a flashlight. Mama lay on top of me, and I heard her teeth chatter. She turned cold, cold all over.

In the morning, when the Germans left, we went into the house…Grandma lay on the bed…tied to it with ropes…Naked! Grandma…My grandma! Horrified…Frightened, I began to scream. Mama pushed me outside. I screamed and screamed…I couldn’t stop…

For a long time I was afraid of trucks. As soon as I heard the sound of a truck, I began to tremble. The war ended, we were already going to school…I would see a tram coming, and I couldn’t help myself, my teeth chattered. From trembling. In our class there were three of us who had lived under the occupation. One boy was afraid of the noise of planes. In spring it was warm, the teacher would open the windows…The noise of a plane…or of a truck driving…This boy’s eyes and mine would grow big, the pupils would get dilated, we’d panic. And the children who had been evacuated and came back laughed at us.

They fired the first salute…People ran outside, and mama and I hid in a ditch. We sat there until the neighbors came: “Come out—this isn’t the war, it’s the Victory celebration.”

How I wanted children’s toys! I wanted a childhood…We would take a piece of brick and pretend it was a doll. Or the smallest of us pretended that he was a doll. Today, if I see pieces of colored glass in the sand, I want to pick them up. They look beautiful to me even now.

I grew up…And someone said, “You’re so beautiful. Like your mama.” I wasn’t glad, I got scared. I’ve never liked to hear those words said to me…