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

“MY MOTHER CARRIED ME TO FIRST GRADE IN HER ARMS…”

Inna Starovoitova SEVEN YEARS OLD. NOW AN AGRONOMIST.

Mama kissed us and went away…

The four of us were left in the hut: the younger ones—my little brother, my two cousins—and me, the oldest one, seven years old. It wasn’t the first time we were left alone, and we had learned not to cry, to behave quietly. We knew our mama was a scout, she had been sent on a mission, and we had to wait for her. Mama had taken us away from the village, and we now lived together with her in a partisan family camp. It had long been our dream! And now—our happiness.

We sit and listen: the trees rustle, women are doing laundry nearby, scolding their children. Suddenly a call: “Germans! Germans!” Everybody runs out of their huts, calling children, fleeing farther into the forest. But where should we run, alone, without mama? What if mama knows that Germans are coming to the camp, and she’s running to us? Since I’m the oldest, I order, “All of you keep quiet! It’s dark here, and the Germans won’t find us.”

We lay low. We became completely silent. Someone looked into the hut and said in Russian, “Whoever is in there, come out!”

The voice was calm, and we came out of the hut. I saw a tall man in a green uniform. “You have a papa?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

“And where is he?”

“He’s far away, at the front,” I revealed. I remember the German even laughed.

“And where is your mama?” he asked next.

“Mama left on a mission with the partisans…”

Another German came, he was in black. They discussed something, and that one, the one in black, showed us with his hand where to go. There stood the women with children who hadn’t managed to escape. The black German pointed his machine gun at us, and I understood what he was about to do. I didn’t even have time to shout and embrace the younger ones…

I woke up to my mother’s crying. Yes, it felt like I’d been sleeping. I got up and saw mama digging a pit and crying. She stood with her back to me, and I didn’t have the strength to call to her, I only had the strength to look at her. Mama straightened up to rest, turned her head toward me, and cried out, “Innochka!” She threw herself at me, picked me up. She held me with one arm, and with the other she felt the rest of us: what if one of the other children was alive? No, they were cold…

After I was treated, mama and I counted: I had nine bullet wounds. I learned to count: in one shoulder—two bullets, and in the other—two bullets. That made four. In one leg—two bullets, and in the other—two bullets. That made eight. And on the neck—a wound. That made it nine.

The war ended. My mother carried me to first grade in her arms…