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

“KING OF CLUBS…KING OF DIAMONDS…”

Galina Matuseeva SEVEN YEARS OLD. NOW RETIRED.

A man is born…

Beside him sit two angels, and they lay out his fortune. They prescribe the years of his life, whether his path will be long or short. And God watches from above. He sent the angels to welcome the new soul. To say that He is there.

My good one…I can see from someone’s eyes whether the person is happy or not. I won’t walk up to just anyone in the street and stop him: “Young, handsome, may I ask you?” People run, run, and I choose one from the crowd, as if I recognize him. I feel something in my chest, I feel warm, and the words appear. The heat of speech. I start speaking…I tell his fortune…I lay out my cards, and everything is in the cards: what was and what will be, and how the soul will rest, and what it will take with it. It will go back where it came from—to heaven. The cards will show…Man is proud, but his fortune is written in the heavens beforehand. There is a text there…But each one reads it in his own way…

We’re Gypsies…Free people…We have our own laws, Gypsy laws. Our home is where we live, and where our heart is glad. For us anywhere is home. Anywhere under the sky. My father taught me so, and my mother taught me. The kibitka sways, shakes along the roads, and mama reads me our prayers. She sings. Gray…the color of the road, the color of dust…the color of my childhood…My good one, have you ever seen a Gypsy tent? Round and high as the sky. I was born in one. In the forest. Under the stars. From the day I was born, I’ve had no fear of night birds and animals. I learned to dance and sing by the bonfire. You can’t imagine the Gypsy life without singing; each of us sings and dances—it’s like speaking. The words of our songs are tender. Devastating…When I was little I didn’t understand them, but I still cried. Such words…They creep into the human heart, they tease it. Lull it. Tease it with the road. Freedom. Great love…No wonder they say the Russian people die twice: once for the Motherland, the second time from listening to Gypsy songs.

My good one, why do you ask so many questions? I’ll tell you myself…

I saw happiness in my childhood. Believe me!

In summer we lived in a camp together. One family. We always stopped near a river. Near a forest. In a beautiful place. In the morning, the birds sing, and my mama sings. She wakes me up. And in winter, we sought out people’s apartments—back then people were pure gold. Good-hearted. We lived well with them. But for as long as there was snow on the ground, we waited for spring. We took care of our horses. Gypsies look after horses like children. In April…At Easter we bowed to the good people and prepared for the road. Sun, wind…We live for the day. Today there’s happiness—someone hugs you at night, or the children are healthy and well fed—and you’re happy. But tomorrow is a new day. Mama’s words…Mama didn’t teach me much. If a child is from God, there’s no need to teach him much, he learns on his own.

That’s how I grew up…My short-term happiness. Gypsy happiness…

I woke up one morning from the talking. From the shouting.

“War!”

“What war?”

“With Hitler.”

“Let them fight. We’re free people. Birds. We live in the woods.”

Then the planes came flying. They shot the cows in the field. Smoke rose into the sky…In the evening, mama’s cards laid themselves out in such a way that she clutched her head and rolled in the grass.

Our camp stood still. Didn’t move. I was bored. I liked the road.

One night an old Gypsy woman came to the fire. Wrinkled like dry dirt under the sun. I didn’t know her, she was from another camp. From far away.

She told us, “In the morning they surrounded us. On good, well-fed horses. Their manes were shiny, their horseshoes strong. The Germans sat in their saddles, and the polizei pulled the Gypsies out of their tents. They pulled off their rings, tore off their earrings. All the women had their ears covered with blood and their fingers dislocated. They stabbed the featherbeds with bayonets. Looking for gold. Afterward, they began to shoot…

“One little girl asked them, ‘Misters, don’t shoot. I’ll sing you a Gypsy song.’ They laughed. She sang for them, danced, then they shot her…The whole camp. The entire camp was wiped out. They set the tents on fire. Only the horses were left. Without people. They took away the horses.”

The bonfire burns. The Gypsies are quiet. I’m sitting next to mama.

In the morning—packing up: bundles, pillows, pots fly into the kibitka.

“Where are we going?”

“To the city,” mama answers.

“Why the city?” I was sorry to leave the river. The sun.

“The Germans ordered it…”

We were allowed to live on three streets of Minsk. We had our own ghetto. Once a week the Germans showed up and checked us according to their list: “Ein Zigeuner…Zwei Zigeuner…” My good one…

How did we live?

Mama and I went from village to village. We begged. One would give us some wheat, another corn. They all invited us in: “Ah, Gypsy woman, come in. Tell my fortune. My husband is at the front.” The war separated people from each other, they all lived apart. Waiting. They wanted to have hope.

Mama told fortunes. I listened…King of clubs, king of diamonds…A black card—Death. The ace of spades. The seven…The white king—burning love. The black king of spades—a military man. The six of diamonds—a future journey…

My mother came out of the yard smiling, but on the road she cried. It’s terrible to tell people the truth: your husband is dead, your son is no longer among the living. The earth has taken them, they are—there. The cards bear witness…

We stayed overnight in a house. I didn’t sleep…I saw how, at midnight, the women let loose their long braids and told fortunes. Each one opened the window, tossed grain into the dark night, and listened to the wind: if the wind is quiet—the promised one is alive, but if it howls and beats on the window, then don’t wait for him, he won’t come back. The wind howled and howled. It beat on the windowpane.

People never loved us the way they did during the war. During the hard times. Mama knew spells. She could help men and animals: she saved cows, horses. She spoke to them all in their own language.

There were rumors: one camp was shot up, then another…A third was taken to a concentration camp…

The war ended, we rejoiced together. You meet someone and embrace him. There were few of us left. But people still told fortunes and read cards. In the house, under the icon, lies a death notice, but the woman still asks, “Oh, Gypsy woman, tell my fortune. What if he’s alive? Maybe the clerk made a mistake?”

Mama told her fortune. I listened…

For the first time I told the fortune of a girl at the market. She drew “great love.” A lucky card. And she gave me a ruble. I had given her happiness, if only for a moment.

My good one, you, too, be happy! May God be with you. Tell people about our Gypsy fate. People know so little…

Taves bahtalo…God be with you!