The barracks weren’t quite so warm however, but we were issued with extra blankets to get us through the cold nights. I had a bed in the barrack which was up against a side wall. I liked that. It gave me just a little bit of privacy. I still, somehow, had kept the bag. It was strange to have that with me, as if I’d existed in another life. Now and again I’d empty the contents out onto the bed. The fishing line was there, the mangled hooks, and the few tins with fire lighting equipment, and also the wooden bracelet given to me by that young girl on the border of Ukraine and Slovakia. That seemed like a lifetime ago, rather than just a few months. I rolled those beads between my fingers and it lifted my heart up a little to hold those small wooden beads carved from Ukrainian oak. All I’d got in the world was there before me on my bed. It wasn’t much, but at least I was safe and dry, clean and well fed.
At night, many of the young men, and women, would sit around outside their barracks, all through the year, whatever the weather. If it rained we crowded into one of the barracks, and during that first winter I found myself wrapping my new coat around me to keep out the chill. In the fading light of evening, cigarettes were smoked, tea and coffee were brewed up and we talked until it was late. Hitler was dead and the Nazis were defeated, we all praised the Lord for that. We swapped stories, each one as tragic as the last. We had a lot of laughs too. There was horseplay; the young men arm-wrestled and had all sorts of competitions to see who was the strongest or the most acrobatic. All to impress the girls of course, who sat in a group giggling as they watched us young men showing off.
As those evenings turned into night, the girls drifted off to their own barracks and the conversation took on a more serious tone. There was one topic that dominated: going home. That was what most people were looking forward to. Getting back to their old way of life, back with friends and family. Of course, there were those who may have lost loved ones and didn’t even know. That caused a lot of anxiety, but in general, the feeling around the camp for many was one of relief that the war was over, and we could go back to where we’d come from and start living our lives again. I was settled at the camp, it wasn’t such as bad place to be, and I’d pushed thoughts of going home to the back of my mind. Living in the Soviet Union still gripped me with fear.
‘What about you, Stefan?’ Asked Jan, one of the Poles, ‘Are you looking forward to getting home?’
I looked at him carefully.
‘Well, Jan,’ I replied, ‘It’s like this. We’ve just spent most of the last year running away from the Red Army, right?
He nodded and took another long pull on his cigarette.
‘So, do you really think we want to go running back into Stalin’s arms?’
He looked a little taken aback. ‘But Stefan, surely you want to get back home just like the rest of us?’
‘What do you think the Soviets will do to me? In their eyes, I’m a traitor. I ran away when I could have joined their Red Army. Maybe they’ll shoot me, maybe they’ll hang me. I don’t know. But even if I did get back home alive, I’m scared what I might find. I don’t know where my brother is, he was taken to Germany to work as a slave labourer. My father’s dead. I’m afraid to even wonder what might have happened to my mother. You see, the Red Army were advancing and my father and I had to make a run for it. We left her all on her own. Lord knows what’s become of her. I don’t like to think about it.’
Jan nodded, ‘I know. It’s the same for all of us. None of us knows what we’ll find when we get back.’
‘Before the war started, we were systematically persecuted by the Soviets. We never knew what would happen from one day to the next. People just disappeared. Some of my best friends lost their fathers and brothers. They were either shot in the back of the head or shipped off to Siberia. That’s what they do.’
Jan shook his head and a frown etched itself over his face. ‘It’s not just Ukraine that’s suffered though, is it? Millions of Poles have been butchered, by the Nazis and the Soviets! We’ll probably never know how many.’
And so we talked, on into the night, just about every night. Not just Jan and I, but all the men. Each one had a different story to tell. There were frequent arguments, and sometimes even punches were thrown.
Sure enough, everyone had to face demons of one sort or another, and I don’t, for one minute, think it was any different for our neighbours in many ways, but those of us who had fled from Soviet rule faced a dilemma that was difficult. We’d been there before and it was brutal.
1946 arrived and we were all still at the camp, those first few months whistled past like a falcon chasing a field mouse. The daily routine of work and regular meals meant we were all regaining our health after our struggle to survive. Of course, we all wondered what our future might be, and it wasn’t long before whispers weaved their way to us. The camp had ears everywhere. Of course, you didn’t know how accurate the information was, but it was all we had. The word was that Stalin had issued a decree. He wanted all Soviet citizens to return, wherever they were. He’d officially asked the Allies to round up all of those who had, for whatever reason, left the Soviet Union. This news created tension around the camp. A group of us Ukrainians sat around, whenever we had the time, and talked about what might happen, ‘We can’t let them take us. It’ll mean certain death for us.’ Ivan rubbed the side of his head and lines popped out on his forehead as he spoke in hushed tones, ‘I was a guard at Janowska. It was terrible. They killed thousands of Jews there, just shot them as they were walking along, sometimes for no reason. I came close to getting shot myself, so, one day, I made a run for it. I really don’t know how I survived, but I’m here now, praise the Lord, but the Soviets aren’t any better than the Nazis. I’m afraid to go back.’
One of the older ones, a man called Oleksa, lifted a finger up to his lips, ‘We must be careful,’ he hissed, ‘we have to make sure we don’t end up in the hands of those communist sons of bitches. Right now, we must give the Americans as little information as possible. Until we know more. Until we can work out the best thing to do. Understood?’
We all nodded. And he was right. So, we went about our daily business, with our mouths tightly shut, but with our ears close to the wind. We needed to know what was happening.
Before long, the spring was with us once again, and things were changing. Oleksa was getting us all organised. He’d set up a number of facilities for us Ukrainians: a church service on a Sunday morning, cultural afternoons once a week on a Wednesday where we sang traditional songs and organised dancing with the younger boys and girls. Many of the people joined in these activities with much enthusiasm and heart, but there were also those who tried to use them as a diversion. One or two of the young men decided they’d try to make themselves some money by robbing nearby houses, or by hanging around the cookhouse to catch a moment when they could sneak in and steal food to sell. A network of criminal activity and black market dealings quickly established itself, but the Americans didn’t stand for any of that. They clamped down hard on these individuals and they were arrested and locked up. The relationship between the governing American army and the people in the camp grew a little more distant.
It wasn’t long before summer was upon us. I watched as Oleksa and a couple of the other men ran those young boys and girls through some traditional dance routines in the sunshine. There was one boy, he must have been about seven years of age, who was able to jump higher than the others, he could spin around faster, and leap around like a lion cub. Many afternoons I stood and watched him, and the others. One day, he came up to me and said, ‘Can you get me a drink, please? I’m thirsty.’ So I fetched him a cup of water.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked before drinking down the water.
‘Stefan,’ I replied, ‘what’s yours?’
‘Taras. I love to dance, I’ve always liked it, as long as I can remember. My father taught me. He’s dead now.’
When I looked at that young boy, I saw a great future for Ukrainians. He had fire inside hi
m and he wasn’t afraid to show it to the world or whoever was watching. Like him, we all needed to stand proud and lose the fear that had eaten into us after years of Soviet persecution, and that period of Nazi terror. To watch Taras and the other boys and girls as they danced and sang raised my spirits and locked my heritage deep into my heart. No one would ever take that away from me again, I was determined to uphold our traditions.
As well as organising all the activities at the camp, somehow, Oleksa managed to compile a small library. Only about 20 or 30 books and pamphlets. They were all a bit battered and stained, which wasn’t surprising. After all, they’d been through the same journey as their owners.
I browsed through them one evening and, as if propelled by magnetism, my fingers plucked out a volume of poetry by Ivan Franko, one of my favourite writers. I flicked through it, and there they were! Wonderfully woven words lined up across the page. I closed the book and nodded to Oleksa. I signed the book he used as a loan record and the book was mine for a week.
The work at the barber shop eased off to some extent, because the camp was just about full. We were all given extra time off, a couple of afternoons a week, to engage in cultural activities, and sometimes, on such occasions, I’d take myself off to the edge of the camp. The camp was on a hill overlooking the old town and, once I’d walked through our perimeter, I saw some beautiful buildings dotted around. Some were wrecked by bombing, but many still stood with their majestic turrets and spires puncturing the clouds above them. I sat for an hour or two reading those poems, losing myself in the passion and the power of Franko’s words. Kotlyarevsky described the power and the force of the eagle and how the Ukrainian language was the same. My mother tongue always sang to me, with a grace and a beauty, but also with a burning flame. Franko’s words leapt off the page and flew into my heart like sparks from a fire. They were like medicine; they healed my mind and caressed my soul. By reading his works, I was reminded of the need for humanity, but also for boldness and courage. I felt a hurricane stir inside me. I’d never known freedom, but I’d read about those who’d battled for a free Ukraine, those fearsome Kozaks! They, and only they, filled the pages of our Ukrainian history with glory, but that was long ago. Since then, we’d become downtrodden and mistreated by our neighbours. Ukraine was like a shadow, like a man in fear of his own reflection. To be righteous, as Franko wrote, was the only way we Ukrainians would ever find our way to real freedom. Our time would come, I was sure of that.
I walked back to the camp thinking about those people who, like my good friend Sasha, still battled our enemies. I looked across to the East and I knew that, over there, the insurgents would be hiding in the mountains, stockpiling weapons and ambushing our enemies. My heart and my soul were with them. Not a day would pass without thinking what the future might bring.
One day, after reading that book on that hill, I returned to the camp just as a convoy of trucks roared in through the main gates, and I watched as soldiers unloaded boxes of supplies. I watched them and waited. They usually filled the trucks up with bags of rubbish and then roared off again. This time it was different. The soldiers left the tails down on the trucks and we were all marched out of our barracks and lined up. A Sergeant paced up and down in front of us with a soldier by his side carrying a notebook. The roll was called to make sure all were present, and a few stray persons were rounded up by the soldiers. Once we were all there, the Sergeant cleared his throat, ‘Right! We have an order here. The first group of Displaced Persons from this camp have been selected to return to the USSR. Due to limited resources, we have to take you guys home little by little. So, I have a list. When your name is called, step forward and climb into the back of one of the trucks. We’ll take you to get official travel documents, and you can then return here to get any possessions that you may have. Your journey home will begin from there.’ He beamed at us, flashing his big smile side to side. No one responded. In fact, we all stood there, stony faced. It was obvious no one wanted to hear their name called out. The Sergeant frowned. Maybe he sensed some unease from us. He cleared his throat again and proceeded to call out names. As I listened I breathed inside, and I breathed freely, because the names he called out were all from the first half of the alphabet. Some of those men took a small step forward and betrayed their identity. Others stood right where they were, and were pulled out of the line by soldiers who were able to identify them with the help of a clerk who held all the information on us in a large black file. The men were escorted into the trucks and driven away to the far side of the camp, to the large manor house used by the Americans as their base. The rest of us stood around, gazing over at it.
‘It’s started,’ said Oleksa, ‘damn it, the Soviets are coming for us. We have to do something.’
‘But what can we do?’ asked Jan.
‘I don’t know, I really don’t know. Let’s wait and see what happens.’
So that’s what we did. The minutes passed so slowly. It was like waiting for milk to turn sour. Oleksa paced about, smoking cigarettes, and cursing the Soviets. Two long hours passed and then the trucks returned. We gathered around and watched as the men climbed out and were escorted into their barracks to get their personal belongings. One or two of the men struggled and tried to break free of the military escort, but were shoved back into line. Oleksa and some other men rushed over to them, ‘Hey! Hey!’ bellowed Oleksa. ‘Let these men go! They’ll be shot by Stalin’s men! You can’t let this happen!’
A Sergeant turned towards Oleksa and snarled, ‘Back off! We have our orders! Step back right now!’ He lowered his rifle and pointed it at Oleksa and the other men, and the soldiers did the same. Oleksa and the men backed away, merging into the larger crowd where I was standing. From there, several of the men around me raised their fists and shouted at the Sergeant, desperate for their friends to be freed. One or two stones were thrown, and the soldiers dodged them. The crowd began to surge forward despite the fact the soldiers were all pointing their rifles.
One of those soldiers stepped forward clumsily. He was a youngster, he couldn’t have been more than 16. He was shaking and beads of sweat trickled down his cheeks. He was trying to hold his rifle steady, but was trembling all over. We watched as he placed a finger on the trigger of his rifle. I half closed my eyes and tensed all my muscles. The whole crowd stood so still it was as if we were in a photograph, but then, in a blur of motion, the Sergeant stepped forward. ‘Step back Private!’ he roared, and he shoved the soldier’s rifle down so it pointed at the ground. The soldier stiffened at the sudden sound in his ear and reacted by stumbling forward, firing the rifle into the ground. The boom of the rifle and the aftershock caused us all to take few steps backwards, and it was like watching a film as the soldier screamed and blood spurted everywhere. He’d shot himself in the foot. The soldier threw himself to the ground writhing and crying out. The Sergeant barked orders to his men and some of them rushed off to get medical aid. One of the soldiers took off his jacket and wrapped it around the foot to stem the flow of blood. Another cradled the injured soldier and spoke to him to reassure him, to let him know that help was on its way. Before too long, a team of medical personnel came running across from the farmhouse and gave first aid to the wounded soldier, whose screams had subsided into whimpers.
In the middle of all this chaos, I noticed a group of men, six of them, break away from the escort. They ran off, unnoticed, and plunged into the cover offered by a group of trees at the side of the camp. Those of us who were onlookers saw all this and tried to remain impassive, to betray nothing with our faces. We all stood still, like bags of sand.
The Sergeant charged up and down issuing orders to his men, and order was restored in the space of minutes, but those minutes were enough for six to flee. I wondered what would become of them. Within a day or two, news filtered through. The Americans had quickly realised that some of their escort were missing and launched a manhunt. They found four of the escapees the next day, but two were never found despite stre
nuous efforts by the Americans. Day after day for a week, maybe two, search parties were seen to leave the camp early morning, returning empty handed as the sun set.
Oleksa got to work, as did all of us. We infiltrated every part of that camp. We had to know what was going on. The fear inside us was strong, it was something that crawled into every cell. We knew that Stalin would either kill us, or send us off to Siberia, to work in the salt mines. That knowledge was enough to keep us all sharp with our eyes and our ears. We saw everything, nothing passed us by. Anytime we saw soldiers or officers talking, we’d find a reason to get closer. Whether it was to take a bag of rubbish to the bins, or to collect something from stores. We were everywhere. Collecting scraps of information, little snatches of sentences, anything. And we remembered them; we held onto them like they were gold.
At least two of us had escaped and I hoped they’d got themselves onto the right road; away from the Soviets. At least they had the summer weather in which to travel. Often, I wondered what became of those two.
That summer was very hot and I spent as much time as I could outdoors. I’d read poetry, or join in some of the sporting activities. At least once a week we’d have a game of football, and on one occasion I remember a couple of fellows charging right across the pitch with half a dozen American soldiers in pursuit. No doubt, some misdemeanour had been committed and an arrest was about to take place. The Americans ran the base well, but were beginning to come down hard on the criminal fraternity. Keeping control of several thousand people who had been through Hell was no easy task.
Summer faded, autumn rustled past and then the winter was with us once again, as we waited to see what would become of us. To keep our spirits up, Oleksa organised a full programme of Christmas activities, including a show. The boys and girls were to perform their dances, a couple of the guys were lined up to tell jokes and there was much more entertainment planned.
One day, around that time, I was sitting outside my barrack with my nose in a book when a shadow loomed over me, it was Oleksa. ‘Stefan, you love your poetry don’t you?’