‘Yes, I’ve always loved to read the work of our great Ukrainian poets. Doesn’t everyone?’
‘Yes, but not as much as you. How do you feel about reading a poem for us at our Christmas show? It’ll be really good for everyone’s morale.’
‘I-I don’t know. I’ve never read to an audience before.’
Oleksa fixed me with a look, ‘You know you have to do this, don’t you?’
Then he walked away. I knew I had no choice. To deliver an oration to inspire my fellow countrymen was something I could not turn away from. The show was scheduled to take place on 4th January, 1947, I had two weeks in which to prepare. Oleksa lent me half a dozen books from his library and, whenever I had a spare moment. I flicked through them. Eventually, I decided to read a section of Taras Shevchenko’s epic poem Haidamaki. I chose the first section of the epilogue; it wasn’t so long but it was a powerful part of the poem, with lines that needed to be delivered with passion. For the next ten days, in the early moonlit nights, I crept down to that spot down by the river and practised, pacing up and down.
The evening of the show arrived and I stood at the side of the stage in the big hall and ruffled Taras’s hair as he went onstage to perform his dance with the other boys and girls. He leapt around with his usual enthusiasm and vitality and, when they finished, I clapped along with the rest of the crowd. There were some loud cheers and whistles for those dancers.
‘Good luck,’ said Taras as he came off the stage, because he knew I was onstage next. Oleksa introduced me with a few words and I stepped onto that stage. The poem I was about to read out was on sheets of paper I held in my hands, but to be honest, I didn’t really need them, each of those words were seared into my brain:
Much time has gone by, since a child a poor orphan,
In sacking and coatless, without any bread,
I roamed that Ukraine where Zaliznyak and Gonta
With sanctified sabres had wreaked vengeance dread.
Much time has gone by since, along those same highways
Where rode Haidamaki, exhausted and sore
I tramped through the country, its high roads and byways,
And weeping, sought people to teach me good lore.
As now I recall them, my youthful misfortunes,
I grieve that they're past! I would trade present fortune
If only those days could be brought back again.
Those evils, the steppes that seem stretching forever,
My father and grandfather old I remember
My father is gone, but my grand-dad remains.
On Sundays, on closing the book about martyrs
And drinking a glass with the neighbours, my father
Would beg of my grand-dad to tell us the story
Of the Haidamaki revolt long ago,
How Gonta, Zaliznyak once punishment gory
Inflicted on Poles.
And the ancient eyes glowed
Like stars in the night as the old man related
How gentry folk perished and how Simla burned
The neighbours from horror and pity near fainted.
And I, a wee fellow, the churchwarden mourned,
Yet, nobody noticed, all gripped by the horror,
The child that was weeping alone in the corner.
I thank you, my grand-dad, 'twas you that preserved
The story I've told of the old Kozak glory:
And by the grandchildren it now will be heard.
The crowd of about 200 people clapped and a few cheered as I finished my oration. There were men and women in that audience who needed a shred of hope to cling onto, and maybe that’s what they got from me. That evening gave us more than just a Christmas show, it gave us a little piece of Ukraine right there in Germany.
It was in those early weeks of January 1947 that one or two convoys left the camp, carrying their human cargo of people returning home, but none of them were Ukrainians. The difference was that the Poles and the Czechs may have found tragedies on returning home, but they didn’t have to face a murderous dog like Stalin.
However, it wasn’t long before the Americans began, once again, to prepare some of us Ukrainians for our journey home. The group of men to be chosen on this occasion looked so downcast. They dragged their feet and their heads hung low. They were loaded into the back of one of the trucks and off they went. Some of them struggled and became violent, screaming and begging not to be sent back. The Americans used force to get them into the trucks and they roared away. Oleksa stubbed a cigarette out beneath his boot, ‘Okay, after work we all meet up, okay? I’ve got a plan. We’ve got to stop this.’
We all nodded and then went off to our respective workplaces. By this time I was well into my second year at the camp. Time had passed quickly. At lunchtime, I grabbed a sandwich and stepped outside to get some fresh air, even though the winter chill nipped away at me. I sat down on some upturned crates with a group of other men and we huddled together to talk and eat our lunch. All around the camp you could see others doing the same, a murmur of voices floated over us from all directions. Our calm was broken by the roar of a truck arriving at the main gate. We watched as they checked in at the guardhouse. Something about the driver and his mate seemed different. There was a lot of arm-waving and their faces were set hard, like they’d seen something that had unnerved them. The arm-waving was no different to normal, the Americans did a lot of that, but it was their faces that made some of us stand up. Something wasn’t right. Some of us younger boys raced after the truck. All the way to the farmhouse, which was just a small dot in the distance. We’d recovered from our war experience and were getting stronger by the day. Some of us ran over there without stopping. By the time we’d got across there, the soldiers had lowered the tail of the truck. We stood getting our breath back, the steam billowing in the cold wash of winter.
A pair of familiar looking men stepped out, two of the men who had left the camp earlier, destined for home. Why were they back? They jumped down and straightened their clothes. One of them turned and looked inside the truck, and then he turned around and covered his face with his hands. The other one pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with trembling hands, but at that point, one of the soldiers bellowed at him, ‘Hey! Put those goddam smokes away! We haven’t got time for that. Now both of you, jump back up there and get to work. Move!’
The man put the packet away, and he and his partner climbed back into the truck. There was a great deal of grunting as a wooden box was pushed out and the two soldiers took the load while the two men clambered out of the truck. The four of them carried the box into the farmhouse. We watched them, and it was clear to all of us that the box was exactly the right size and shape to contain a human body. We didn’t even have to say it to each other, it was as if the information flowed through all our heads at the same time.
The soldiers scowled at us as they carried the box, and they scowled again as they returned and, with their two helpers, hauled a second box of similar dimensions out of the truck. One of them waved his arms at us and tried to shoo us away, but we stood firm. We knew it was our own people inside those boxes. Don’t ask me how, we just knew, and we needed to know what had happened to them.
Later that evening, Oleksa’s meeting took place as he’d suggested earlier that day. Several of us gathered in the usual place, on a pile of crates and tea chests in a secluded corner near our barracks. This was where we regularly met to discuss plans for our futures. Ten o’clock was the usual time and we were all there, the usual gang, Jan, Ivan, several other young men and I, but there was one person missing. Oleksa. We sat and waited, we lit cigarettes and chatted. It was unlike him to be late. Eventually, he arrived, his shadow looming large in the moonlight, but he was not alone, another shadow walked beside him.
‘Apologies for my late arrival, I’ve brought a guest.’ Oleksa and the other fellow sat down, and we all peered through the dimness until we could make out this man’s features. It was one of the men who h
ad returned on the truck that afternoon with the two boxes! He sat fidgeting and swaying, like he had an itch inside him.
This was typical of Oleksa. The Americans would have taken steps to keep the two men apart from the rest of the camp, at least for a while, but through his contacts, Oleksa had managed to get to one of them and bring him to us. ‘This is Yanik. He’s come to talk to us. We need to welcome him. Has anyone got a smoke for him, and a drink, maybe?’
We all rustled through our pockets and several of us thrust cigarette packets at him. There was a glug glug from somewhere within that dark circle and a tin mug with horilka or something resembling the same was handed to him. He took a long pull on his cigarette and a swig from the mug, and then he didn’t look so nervous.
‘So, can you tell us all what happened today?’ said Oleksa.
‘I-I’ll try,’ replied Yanik. He took another long pull on his cigarette and exhaled, ‘it was terrible. Really terrible. You see, none of us really wanted to be on that truck. It was like sitting in a tomb on wheels. We sat and smoked all the while. No-one really had much to say. Well, what could we say? It was like we all knew we were on our way to either a bullet in the head, or years and years of hard labour in Siberia. But there was nothing we could do. There were soldiers with guns in those trucks with us. We were trapped. Anyway, we stopped after about two hours for a toilet break and a stretch. I think it was one of the American soldiers who wanted to stop.’ He paused to take another swig from the tin mug and to ask for another cigarette. He lit up and continued. ‘We were all standing around in a wooded area, and there were two youths with us who had been very quiet in the truck. They were both pacing up and down and trembling. They looked scared. There was terror in their eyes. So much that one of the Americans kept a close eye on them, I guess for fear they might make a run for it.’
Yanik paused again, ‘Then, we heard a roar in the distance. It was a truck heading towards us. It got closer, and we could see it was one of the American trucks coming down the road towards us, probably with supplies on board. All the soldiers turned and waved at the driver, and he waved back and grinned. Then it happened.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and ran his hands over his head. ‘We all watched as the driver stopped smiling and his expression switched to one of shock. There was a squeal of brakes as he tried to stop, but it was too late. You see, the two boys just threw themselves in front of the truck, and he smashed into them, and ran over them. They got flattened.’ Yanik sat there shaking his head, with pain showing on his face.
‘Some of the guys turned away and threw up. I just stood there. Miroslav was right next to me, and we watched as the truck reversed. The two boys were squashed into the mud, with their bones poking through their skin. It was horrible. The soldiers got me and Miroslav to help with digging the bodies out, and they radioed for another truck to come and pick us up. The soldiers ordered me and Miroslav to go with them and help them. That’s why we’re back. At least we don’t have to go home now, not just yet anyhow, but I didn’t want to come back here like this, not as a coffin bearer for two young boys.’
As I listened to Yanik, and as his story unfolded, I found myself clenching my fists and breathing hard. Not only did Stalin butcher our people at will, he created such a fear inside people that they were driven to do thing like this. If I could have got hold of him there and then, I’d have throttled him with my bare hands, but I knew I would have been in a long queue of people who wanted to do the same.
We all mourned the passing of those two boys, they were both only 17 years old. From that time on, the Americans started to see things differently. They interviewed all of us. It was quite a lengthy process, but by this time we all knew what to say to them. Oleksa’s infiltration of the whole camp had been so slick and so polished, that we found out just about everything that was going on. We all said we were from the Western part of Ukraine, because we had inside information suggesting that was the best thing to say. I told them I was from Stanislaviv. They noted it on their records. So many of us went through that process, and we hoped and prayed we wouldn’t have to return to face Stalin’s jurisdiction, to be delivered to the people that carried out his murderous directives.
It took the Americans just over a year to plan everything, right through to the summer of 1948, but then my prayers were answered when they took me in for a final briefing.
‘Well, Stefan, your documents are ready.’ said a man in plain clothes whose name I cannot recall. ‘Now, you have a choice. As a refugee of the War and also because you originate from Stanislaviv, you can take up residence in a number of different countries, as you know. You’ve seen the list?’ I nodded. ‘Good, then what is your chosen destination?’
I hesitated. I’d been given a list to choose from a few days before, and I reckoned I’d made my mind up, but was it the right one? There was Belgium, the United Kingdom, Canada, Australia, Israel, France, Venezuela, Brazil, Argentina and the United States. I’d done a lot of thinking. I didn’t want to go as far as Australia or Canada, and although I liked the Americans, the United States was also too far. I still held onto a faint hope that one day I would be able to return home, to my beloved Ukraine. I didn’t want to be too far away. The South American countries were also too far. I reasoned to myself that, because I’d been in the camp nearly four years and picked up a bit of English, maybe the United Kingdom would be the best place to go. Many others in the camp were making the same choice.
‘Well?’ said the man, tapping his pen on his clipboard.
‘United Kingdom.’ I replied, and that was that. He made a note on a sheet of paper,
‘Fine. Okay, you’ll need to inform Victor at the barber’s shop, and make sure you’re ready to go. We’ll provide you with a few essentials, like some extra clothes and a bag, and you’ll leave in two days, okay?’
‘Okay.’
I went straight from there to the barber shop and told Victor. He gave me a big bear hug and said he’d miss me. He said it would be like losing a son. He gave me a small holdall with a set of clippers, scissors and such-like, for cutting hair,
‘Stefan, you’ve been a good worker. Take these, and if you get short of money, you can cut hair and earn for yourself. Take care and best of luck.’ As I walked away, he still had that huge grin spread over his face. I’d miss Victor, but the time had come to leave. It didn’t take long to pack, so I just had to say goodbye to my friends.
‘The rest of us will be leaving soon, Stefan.’ Oleksa had an arm around my shoulders. ‘I know this place has been good to you, but it’s just a temporary camp. In the end, we’ll all be transported away from here, but there is one thing that will always unite us. Our Ukrainian blood. One day, Ukraine will be free. We may not live to see that day, but we must fight to keep our traditions alive.’
As always, Oleksa was right. The battle wasn’t over. It would never be over. On the morning of my departure, almost three years after arriving, I climbed into a truck and left. To another foreign land, and to a new life.
Chapter 12
Ukrainian proverb: Our boots will find their way
I’d walked about a thousand miles to stay out of the Soviets’ reach, most of it with the violent sounds of the War ringing in my ears. There were no more booms of distant bombs exploding anymore; or whistles of rockets flying past. There was just the steady drone of trucks, driving up and down the roads, moving people from place to place, trying to establish some order from the chaos.
Some of the men, in the back of the truck I was in, chattered with excitement,
‘England. I reckon it’ll be a good place,’ said a young man called Marko, ‘it’s one of the richest countries in the world. I reckon we’ll all make a pile of money there, if we work hard.’
‘I don’t know about that, my friend,’ replied an older man, Yarema. ‘They’ll want to look after their own first. We’ll be getting the worst jobs, the dirtiest work. Just you wait and see. And they won’t be paying us in gold bars, so you can forget abou
t getting yourself dressed up in any fancy clothes or fine silks.’
Others in the back of the truck sat quietly, it was to be a long journey. The excitable ones, such as Marko, settled down after we’d been on the road for a couple of hours. Yarema reckoned it was about a thousand miles or so to the United Kingdom. I smiled when he said that. At least this time, I’d be transported in relative comfort, whether by road, rail or boat, with a roof over my head and enough to eat.
Even so, I was hurtling further and further away from my home, towards the unknown, into a new world, where the language would be different. I had to thank Father for at least teaching me some basic English. When I was just a boy he’d say to me, in English, ‘Come on, John.’
That phrase meant an English lesson was coming my way. He taught me how to count from one to ten, how to say yes and no, please and thank you. That was about all. But, when you’re in a camp like we’d been, you became a good observer and a good listener. I’d also picked up a quite a few phrases from the Americans.
Wherever I was and whatever language was spoken, my heart and soul would always be Ukrainian. Inside, I was torn apart, because a large part of me wanted to go home. I missed Mother, but I didn’t know what might have happened to her. Father and I had left her at the mercy of the marauding Soviets. It turned me cold just thinking what those barbarians might have done with her. A veil of great shame hung over me to think that we’d left her behind, even though she’d refused to come with us. I tried to convince myself she was a clever one, one that would be able to either hide herself, or tackle the marauders face-to-face and, somehow, send them away, but deep inside I was in turmoil. At times I feared the worst and had to shut out images in my head of Soviet soldiers barging into our home and making Mother scream and struggle. The thought of it made me sick. It turned me into a statue. I couldn’t move or breathe and just sat in the back of that truck, with the pain of those thoughts entering every inch of my body, rendering me lifeless. If someone was to dig a grave right then, I’d have jumped into it and gladly let the soil cover me, until I was so far below ground I could escape the thoughts that threatened me.