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

“AT LEAST LET ME POUR SOME LITTLE POTATOES IN YOUR POCKETS…”

Katya Zayats TWELVE YEARS OLD. NOW A WORKER ON THE KLICHEVSKY STATE FARM.

Grandma chases us away from the windows…

But she looks out and tells mama, “They found old Todor in the shed…Our wounded soldiers were there…He brought them his sons’ clothes; he wanted them to change so the Germans wouldn’t recognize them. They shot the soldiers in the shed, and brought Todor to his yard and ordered him to dig a pit near the house. He’s digging…”

Old Todor was our neighbor. Through the window we could see him digging a pit. He finished digging…The Germans took away his shovel, yelled something at him in their own language. The old man didn’t understand or didn’t hear because he had long been deaf. Then they pushed him into the pit and made signs for him to get on his knees. And they buried him alive…On his knees…

Everyone became frightened. Who are they? Are they even human? The first days of the war…

For a long time we avoided old Todor’s house. It seemed to everyone that he was shouting from under the ground.

They burned our village so that only dirt was left. Only stones in the yards, and even they were black. There was no grass left in our garden. It was burned up. We lived by charity—my little sister and I went around to other villages, asking people, “Give us something…”

Mama was sick. Mama couldn’t go with us, she was ashamed.

We would come to a cottage.

“Where are you from, children?”

“From Yadrenaya Sloboda. They burned us out.”

They would give us a bowl of barley, a piece of bread, an egg…I thank them all, they all gave something.

Another time we’d cross the threshold, the women would wail loudly, “Oh, children, how many are you? This morning two pair came by.” Or: “Some people just left. We don’t have any more bread, let me at least pour some little potatoes in your pockets.”

They wouldn’t let us leave the cottage empty-handed. They’d give something, if only a bunch of flax, and by the end of the day we’d have gathered a whole sheaf of flax. Mama spun it herself, she wove it. At the swamp she dyed it black with peat.

My father came home from the front. We started building a cottage. There were just two cows left in the whole village. The cows carried the wood. We did, too. Also on our backs. I couldn’t carry logs bigger than myself, but if one was my size, I would drag it.

The war didn’t end soon…They count it as four years. There was shooting for four years…And how many years to forget?