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

We were all very glad that she had found her brother, because we all had somebody, and she didn’t have anybody. I, for instance, had two sisters, someone else had a brother, or cousins. Those who didn’t have anybody would decide: you be my brother, or you be my sister. And then they would protect and take care of each other. In our orphanage there were eleven Tamaras…Their last names were: Tamara Unknown, Tamara Strange, Tamara Nameless, Tamara Big, and Tamara Small…

What else do I remember? I remember that they scolded us very little in this orphanage, no, they didn’t scold us at all. We used to go sleigh riding in winter with children who had families, and I saw mothers scold and even spank their children, if they put felt boots on their bare feet. When we did that nobody scolded us. I deliberately put my boots on that way so as to be scolded. I wanted so much to be scolded.

I was a good student, and they told me I should help a boy with his math. A village boy. We went to school together—the orphanage children and local village children. I had to go to his family. To his house. I was frightened. I thought, “What kind of things do they have there, how do they stand in the house, how should I behave myself?” Home was something inaccessible to us, the most desirable.

I knocked on the door and my heart skipped a beat…

* Samuil Marshak (1887–1964) was a poet, writer, and translator most famous for his books for children. However, the poem “Chicken” was in fact written by his friend and fellow children’s poet Kornei Chukovsky (1882–1969).

“…NEITHER SUITORS NOR SOLDIERS…”

Vera Novikova THIRTEEN YEARS OLD. NOW A TRAMWAY DISPATCHER.

It was so long ago…But it’s still frightening…

I remember such a sunny day, the wind ruffles the spiderwebs. Our village is burning, our house is burning. We come out of the forest. The little children cry, “A bonfire! A bonfire! Beautiful!” And all the others weep. Mama weeps and crosses herself.

The house burned down…We rummaged in the ashes, but didn’t find anything. Only charred forks. The stove stayed as it had stood. There was food in it—potato pancakes. Mama took the frying pan out with her hands: “Eat, children.” It was impossible to eat those pancakes, they smelled so much of smoke, but we ate them, because we had nothing else but grass. All we had left was the grass and the ground.

It was so long ago…But it’s still frightening…

My cousin was hanged…Her husband was the commander of a partisan unit, and she was pregnant. Someone denounced her to the Germans, and they came. They chased everybody out to the square. Ordered that no one should cry. Next to the village council grew a tall tree. They drove the horse up to it. My cousin stood on the sledge…She had a long braid…They put the noose around her neck, she took the braid out of it. The horse pulled the sledge away, and she hung there spinning…The women shouted…They shouted without tears, just with voices. We weren’t allowed to cry. We could shout, but not cry—not be sorry. They came up and killed those who cried. There were adolescent boys, sixteen or seventeen years old. They were shot. They had cried.

So young…As yet neither suitors nor soldiers…

Why have I told you this? It’s more frightening for me now than then. That’s why I don’t recall it…

“IF ONLY ONE SON COULD BE LEFT…”

Sasha Kavrus TEN YEARS OLD. NOW DOCTOR OF PHILOLOGY.

I was at school…

We went outside and began to play as usual. Just then fascist planes came flying and dropped bombs on our village. We had already heard stories about the battles in Spain, about the fate of Spanish children. Now the bombs were dropping on us. Old women fell to the ground and prayed…So…I’ve remembered all my life the voice of Levitan^* announcing the beginning of the war. Stalin’s speech I don’t remember. People stood for whole days by the kolkhoz loudspeaker waiting for something, and I stood next to my father.

The first to burst into our village of Brusy, in the Myadelsky district, was a punitive squad. They opened fire, shot all the cats and dogs, and then began interrogations, trying to find out where the activists lived. Before the war the village council was in our cottage, but no one pointed to my father. So…they didn’t betray him…During the night I had a dream. I had been shot, I lie there and think, but for some reason I don’t die…

I remember an episode of the Germans chasing chickens. They’d catch one, hold it up, and whirl it around until only the head was left in their hand. They laughed. But it seemed to me that our chickens cried out…like people…in human voices…So did the cats and the dogs when they were being shot…I had never seen any sort of death before. Neither human nor any other sort. Once I saw dead nestlings in the forest, that was all. I hadn’t seen any more death…