‘Mother, why don’t you sing anymore?’ I blurted out.
She turned around and looked at me, ‘I miss him so much, you know, Stefan. I can’t sing when he’s not here. It’s like part of me has been torn away. When he comes back, then maybe I’ll find my voice again.’ I walked towards her. She pulled me closer and clasped me to her bosom. My beautiful Mother, she was so warm and loving. I wondered how Volodimir would be, without her near him. To be taken away from his family and sent to work as a slave labourer must have been so sorrowful for him, I really felt for him. However, we received several more letters from him over a period of months which were delivered to the village hall, and the tone of them was quite cheerful, but that was typical of him, he wouldn’t have wanted us to worry about him and he would also have stayed defiant in the face of his Nazi overlords.
Meanwhile, life carried on. The area around the village hall became a buzzing area of trade, and pretty much the centre of village life. We boys became quite friendly with some of the soldiers who manned the communications room. Well, I guess it was quite boring for them sat in their office, sending and receiving messages. There were four of them, and they were all fanatical about football. During their breaks we’d often see them kicking a ball around. One day, they invited us to join in, and after a kick around, we challenged them to a game, using a combination of our clumsy German and making signs with our hands. It was to be four against four, and the first to five goals would win. We marked out a small pitch on a field next to the village hall, using jackets for the goalposts. As always, I kept goal. The Germans were young, fit soldiers, but their stiff uniforms hampered them to an extent. Even so, they expected to win, and they got off to a good start with two quick goals in succession, with some slick passing and a couple of darting runs from the back by the short stocky one with the shaved head, who grabbed both those goals. They were smiling and looking a little smug, obviously thinking they’d got the beating of us. But, they hadn’t reckoned on Miron. Of all my friends, he was the most naturally sporty. He could swim the fastest and the furthest, and he could perform somersaults, cartwheels and flips. He was strong as a bullock, but, best of all, he was a shining star when it came to playing football. We knew our only hope of beating the soldiers was to get the ball to Miron. So that’s what we did. He controlled it in a flash and set off on a weaving run with the ball seemingly attached to his feet. He glided past a couple of the soldiers, and then struck a low, hard shot into the goal. He repeated this move twice more and the soldiers stood scratching their heads. We had the lead, three goals to two. The next time Miron got the ball, three of the soldiers surrounded him. With a sly and silky touch he slipped the ball through one of the soldier’s legs and the ball rolled to Taras who sent it screaming past the keeper for another goal. That was four two. The soldiers rolled up their sleeves and really got to work. They became a little more physical, barging into us to stop us getting the ball off them. They strung together a few passes and one of them cracked in a fierce shot from half way down the pitch. I was right behind it but fumbled my catch. The ball fell kindly for another of their team who swept it home. I was annoyed with myself, and perhaps a little downcast.
‘Don’t worry, Stefan,’ said Miron, ‘we’re still in front. We’ll beat them.’
But, the soldiers were fired up by then. They weren’t about to let themselves become humiliated by a group of boys. They fought like madmen to keep the ball, they passed it around until one of them burst through a gap and was bearing down on goal. Suddenly, from nowhere, just as the soldier was about to blast a shot at me from about five yards out, Miron appeared and flung himself at the ball, just managing to get a toe to it and divert it away from the soldier. The soldier collapsed on top of Miron and the ball rolled towards me. I kicked it as hard as I could and it sailed the full length of the pitch. The soldier keeping goal at the other end lost the flight of the ball in the shimmering tangerine embers of that summer sky. Somehow, it whistled past his fingers. Goal! Five goals to three. We’d won! For a few seconds we went crazy. We jumped and cheered together, all four of us, and then we stopped, sensing that to bask in the soldiers’ defeat was maybe not such a wise move. The soldiers just stood there, as if they couldn’t believe it. Then, after the briefest of handshakes, three of them sloped back inside. The fourth one didn’t rush off quite so quickly. He smiled at us, ‘Well played boys. Come with me, I’ll get you something to celebrate your win.’
He seemed a good hearted fellow, and we waited in the main hall next to the communications room, while he disappeared into a store room. While we were waiting, the other three walked past and nodded to us, offering congratulatory smiles.
‘We’ll beat you next time,’ said one of them. The soldier returned and gave us each a handful of small chocolate bars. Of course, we were delighted.
We left the hall and I counted the chocolate bars. I’d got six. I hadn’t eaten chocolate for a very long time and I was tempted to rip a wrapper off and guzzle down one of the bars there and then, but, I knew I couldn’t do that. They were too precious. I knew I could trade them for food. So, on the way home I called into a neighbour’s home, one where I was certain I could trade the chocolate. Mr Popovic lived at the bottom of our road, in the largest of the local smallholdings. Lord knows, through all the years of Soviet rule, somehow he’d managed to keep such a large amount of land. He’d most likely crossed some grasping Soviet palms with wads of roubles, and, under the Nazis, for some reason, he was allowed to keep a few hens for the eggs they produced. No doubt, the Soldiers were there most days to steal them, but, just like the rest of us, I also have no doubt that Mr Popovic scooped out as many as he dared in the early hours of the morning and kept them well hidden.
Mr Popovic lived with his wife. It was just the two of them. She was of Polish descent, and it was well known that she was just a little stuck up. She saw herself as the first lady of the village. Mr Popovic had made some considerable money over the years. Most of it had been spent on Mrs Popovic’s taste for fine clothes, perfume, make-up and jewellery. The rest of us had always made do with rags, but she was always dressed up really fine. She and Mr Popovic always sat at the front in church, and she always held her hymn book aloft so everyone could see her fine, white silk, elbow length gloves. I was pretty confident I’d be able to trade some of the chocolate bars for some eggs with them, so I walked up their approach, up a set of steps to the front door and knocked. I waited. I was a little nervous, I must admit. The door opened. It was her,
‘Hello. Oh. What is it? What do you want?’ She stood with shoulders sagging. Her once golden hair was now faded, but I could see that, beneath the creases of time and the distortions of age, there had been a woman of great beauty. For a second or two I was mesmerised, but then I held up one of the chocolate bars and managed to mumble a few words, ‘I . . . I’d like to trade some of these for eggs.’
She lowered her head and sniffed, ‘Show me,’ she said. So I handed it over to her. She peered at it and looked closely at the tiny letters on the packaging. Then she lifted her head up,
‘Pavlo! Come here! Pavlo!’ She continued to shout like this over and over again, only stopping briefly now and again to get her breath back. Eventually, there was a shuffling sound and he appeared. He too was hunched over, with thin wisps of greying hair plastered down over his head and a somewhat straggly orange moustache drooping down to his chin, ‘What is it, my love?’
‘This boy has some chocolate. He wishes to trade for some eggs.’
‘Well, my love, do you think it’s a worthwhile exchange?’
‘It’s fine Belgian chocolate. I don’t know where this boy got it from, and I’m not going to ask him, most likely it’s contraband. But Pavlo, you know how much I adore Belgian chocolate. I’d like some. I really would.’
With that she handed the chocolate bar back to me, twirled around and disappeared inside. Pavlo looked at me, ‘Well, young man, how many of these have you got?’
I
looked up at him, and with the practised deception of many years replied, ‘Just two.’
He smiled at me, ‘So, how many eggs would you like?’
‘A dozen.’
He laughed softly, displaying his crooked, yellow teeth and furred tongue,
‘Young man, the most I can give you for two small bars of chocolate such as these are six eggs.’
I hesitated. I didn’t want to agree too quickly, but in the end I just nodded. He shuffled back inside and, after leaving me on the doorstep for an uncomfortable few minutes, returned with a box. He opened it, ‘Here. Six lovely big ones for you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Popovic.’
We made our exchange and I turned, danced down the steps, and ran all the way home. I burst into our kitchen, ‘Mother! Mother! Look what I’ve got!’
She opened up the box, ‘Where did you get these, Stefan.’
‘I ran some errands for Mr Popovic and he paid me with these eggs.’ I hated lying to my own Mother, but sometimes it was easier.
‘Oh well, that’s good. Well done, Stefan. These eggs look very fresh. Maybe I can do some baking.’ She set to work right there and then, kneading and mixing flour with water, then adding one of the eggs and some sugar. I sat down at the kitchen table and watched her. She rolled out the rough dough on a large wooden board. Mother slapped, pummelled and worked the dough until she had it smooth and elastic. She broke off a piece. Then she pulled down her old battered rolling pin from a high shelf and rolled it until it was just the right thickness, about a quarter of an inch or so. Then she cut out her shapes. It was incredible to watch how she could make so much out of so little. She made tray after tray of khrusty*. This was a dainty piece of sweet pastry cut into a pointed shape with the centre section folded back on itself. She slid tray after tray into the oven to bake them, and once they were done she dusted them with a fine sugar coating. Before long, I was biting into one of them. It melted in my mouth. I was allowed to have just two of them while they were still warm, the rest were to be sold at the village hall market.
The following day was a Sunday. We’d heard rumours that the Nazis were planning to reopen some of the churches, but were still waiting. So, instead, we woke up that morning and Father read from the Bible, and we said some prayers. Then, after breakfast, Father and I walked down to the village hall market to try and sell the khrusty which were wrapped in napkins and stacked into a pail which I carried. We knew it was a sin to work on a Sunday, but I’m sure the Lord would have recognised we needed to make the most of every day in every way and would have granted us permission.
We arrived quite early, about nine o’clock, and found an available space. The Nazis provided a few collapsible tables for the purposes of trade and there were only two or three of these left. We grabbed one, and Father laid out a tablecloth and some decorative plates. We arranged the khrusty on the plates.
‘Well, Stefan, how much shall we sell them for?’
‘I don’t know.’
Father smiled, ‘Well, we’ll just see what happens, eh?’ I smiled back.
Soon, the market was busy, with many people from the village wandering around it. Most of them saw the khrusty and walked on. It was the kind of thing they could have made themselves. A couple of elderly ladies tottered by and we sold them a couple each for a small sum, just a palmful of small change. It didn’t look like we’d sell that many and Father started to pace around, ‘I’m just going to have a look around, Stefan. You’ll be okay on your own won’t you?’
‘Of course, Father. I’ll be fine.’
He wandered off and I was left looking at the khrusty, my mouth watering. I thought that maybe I could slip a couple down, surely Father wouldn’t notice. No. I didn’t want to give in. They were very difficult to resist, if I started eating them I’d most likely end up eating at least half of them. They were really excellent. As I stood and looked at them I became aware of a shadow right in front of me. I looked up,
‘Hello, young man, we meet again.’
It was the soldier. The one who’d given us the chocolate bars,
‘H-hello.’ I smiled at him weakly. He made me nervous, just like the other soldiers.
‘I see you’ve been busy. These look very nice. How much are they?’
I was at a loss. I looked around to see if Father was nearby, but he wasn’t anywhere around. The soldier saw my predicament, ‘Okay, listen. I tell you what. Let me try one for free, and if I like it, I guarantee I’ll buy the lot and I’ll give you a good price.’ I wasn’t sure. I scanned around again and again. There was still no sign of Father. I had to do something, else the soldier could’ve turned nasty, and so I nodded in agreement. He picked up one of the khrusty and took a bite. His eyes widened and he chewed with obvious delight. He finished it in the time it would take for a butterfly to flutter its wings. ‘That was beautiful. Just beautiful. Yes. I’ll take all of them, if that’s okay?’
‘Of course.’ I replied. What else could I say?
But I had a dilemma. I had no container in which to pack the khrusty. I stood there wondering what to do when the soldier said, ‘Hang on. Just let me fetch a bowl.’ He strode back into the village hall and returned with a large metal bowl, ‘Here. Put them all in here. The other men and I will get through them before the day’s out, I’m sure of that.’
After tipping all the khrusty into the bowl, I looked up at him expectantly. He smiled and reached into a pocket. He pulled out a bundle of notes, ‘Here, young man. Take these.’ He handed me the notes and picked up the bowl with a smile on his face. I thanked him and then he turned and walked back into the village hall.
I let out a big breath and I leant on the table in front of me. I was relieved, because he could have just taken everything from me without any payment whatsoever. I stood looking at the banknotes in my hand. I wasn’t sure how much there was, but I hoped Father would be happy. Before long, he returned,
‘Stefan, what’s happened? Where are all our khrusty?’
I held out the banknotes. He took them. I watched him as he counted them, his eyes widening, ‘Where did you get these, Stefan?’’
‘From a soldier. It was one of those we played football with yesterday. He tried one, and then he bought the lot.’
An expression of concern etched itself over Father’s face and he turned just a touch pale, ‘Stefan, you know, I really don’t want you mixing with these soldiers. You never know what it might lead to. Just look at what happened to Volodimir. You need to make yourself invisible. So they don’t know you even exist. This is quite a lot of money, much more than the khrusty are worth, but what’s to stop that soldier informing on you and saying you cheated him, eh?’
‘I know, Father. I know that. But there was nothing I could do, except maybe give him the khrusty for free.’
‘All right. Well, let’s not dwell on this any longer. We’ll pack up and go home now.’
We rolled up our tablecloths and packed everything back into the pail. As we did this, I became aware of a hush that had descended on the market place. All around us, everyone had ceased going about their business and were looking across at the main door into the village hall. Wulf was standing there. He hadn’t been around for a while, and we’d all assumed he’d been transferred elsewhere. Clearly, that was not the case. He was there, with his henchmen, looking every bit as powerful as always. Also alongside him were some of the men from the communications room. He stepped forward a few paces and looked around at the crowd,
‘Achtung! We have in our midst a saboteur! We’ve granted you all the privilege of coming here to trade with us, but someone has taken the opportunity to commit an act of vandalism. I expect that person thinks that, by committing such acts, they will stop us or slow us down. They won’t.’ Wulf paused. He paced slowly into the middle of the market place. Everyone, all of us, just stood like statues, hardly daring to breathe.
Wulf continued, ‘As part of our war against the cursed Bolsheviks, we require to be able to communic
ate with other battalions across this region and beyond. That’s why we have facilities such as the ones here in this village hall. But just this morning, someone has cut through the cables leading to the generator. The radio equipment is no longer operational. Not until we can get more cables. That will take some time to organise, at least a week, maybe longer. I will not stand for this! Will you people never learn?’ Then, he barked orders to his soldiers to assemble all the civilians in the immediate area onto the field, the one where we’d played our football match against the soldiers. There must have been about 200 of us, all lined up in four rows of 50 or so.
‘This time the execution squad will require one hundred. That’s right. One hundred of you will be shot for this act of insurgency.’ Wulf hesitated and scanned across the faces of the people lined up. We all remained impassive. Expressionless. Soviet rule had numbed us and built up our tolerance to pain of all descriptions.
Wulf became more animated. He paced up and down, slapping his baton into a gloved hand. He approached the end of the first line, which, unfortunately, Father and I had been herded into. Slowly he walked along and then stopped. He placed a hand on someone’s shoulder, and then stepped back while two of his men dragged the unfortunate off and bundled them into a covered truck, where they remained under armed guard. Father and I were right in the middle of the front row. I really hoped Wulf would just pass us by, but I had a bad feeling. He made another nine or ten selections as he approached us. My mouth was dry as a dirt track and my stomach was churning like crazy. There was no way he would pass without taking at least one of us, I knew that. I wanted to run, or collapse in tears, but I didn’t. I carried on standing there. The stillness of the day made that moment seem like it was a dream, and I hoped it was, but the taste in my mouth was one of bitterness, like vinegar, stinging me back to reality. It was happening all right. It took every ounce of my energy not to shake and tremble.