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

“And a piece of paper?”

“No again. What do you need it for?”

“I know I’ll die soon, and I want to write a letter to my mother.”

We weren’t allowed to have any pencils or paper in the camp. But we found some for her. Everybody liked her—so blond and gentle. Such a gentle voice.

“How are you going to send the letter?” I asked.

“I’ll open the window during the night…And give the pages to the wind…”

She was probably eight years old, maybe ten. How can you tell by the bones? There were walking skeletons there, not people…Soon she fell ill, couldn’t get up and go to work. I begged her…On the first day I even dragged her as far as the door. She clung to the door, but couldn’t walk. She lay for two days, and on the third they came and took her away on a stretcher. There was only one way out of the camp—through the chimney…Straight to heaven…

I’ll remember it all my life…I’ll never forget it…

At night she and I talked.

“Does an angel come to you?” I wanted to tell her about my angel.

“No. Mama comes to me. She always wears a white blouse. I remember this blouse she had with cornflowers embroidered on it.”

In the fall…I survived till the fall. By what miracle, I don’t know…In the morning we were driven to work in the field. We harvested carrots, cut cabbages—I liked this work. It had been long since I went to the fields or saw anything green. In the camp you didn’t see the sky, you didn’t see the ground, because of the smoke. The chimney was tall, black. Smoke came out of it day and night…I saw a yellow flower in the field. I’d already forgotten how flowers grow. I caressed this flower…The other women also caressed it. We knew that ashes from our crematorium were brought here, and we all had our dead. A sister, or a mother…I had Mashenka…

If I’d known I would survive, I would have asked her mama’s address. But I didn’t think I would…

How did I survive, after dying a hundred times? I don’t know…It was my angel who saved me. He persuaded me. He appears even now. He likes nights when the moon shines brightly through the window. White light…

Aren’t you afraid to be with me? To listen to me?…

O-o-oh…

* For lack of palm fronds, Russians traditionally carry pussy willow branches in the services of Palm Sunday.

“DIG HERE…”

Volodia Barsuk TWELVE YEARS OLD. NOW CHAIRMAN OF THE COUNCIL OF THE SPARTAKUS ATHLETIC SOCIETY OF THE BELORUSSIAN REPUBLIC.

We joined the partisans at once…

Our whole family: papa, mama, my brother, and me. My brother was older. They gave him a rifle. I envied him, and he taught me to shoot.

Once my brother didn’t come back from a mission…For a long time mama refused to believe he was dead. Our unit received information that a partisan group surrounded by the Germans had blown themselves up with an antitank mine so as not to be taken alive. Mama suspected that our Alexander was there. He hadn’t been sent with that group, but he could have met them. She went to the unit commander and said, “I sense that my son is lying with them. Allow me to go there.”

She was given several fighters, and we went. And here is a mother’s heart for you! The fighters began to dig in one place, but my mama pointed to another: “Dig here…” They began to dig and found my brother. He was no longer recognizable, he was all black. Mama recognized him by a scar from appendicitis and by the comb in his pocket.

I always remember my mama…

I remember how I smoked for the first time. She saw it and called my father: “Look what our Vovka is doing!”

“What is he doing?”

“Smoking.”

Father came up to me, looked.

“Let him smoke. We’ll sort it out after the war.”

During the war we recalled all the time how we lived before the war. We lived all together, several related families in one big house. We lived cheerfully and amiably. On payday Aunt Lena bought a lot of pastry and cheeses, gathered all the children, and treated them. She was killed, along with her husband and her son. All my uncles were killed…

The war ended…I remember my mama and me walking down the street. She was carrying some potatoes she had been given at the factory where she worked. A German prisoner came to us from the ruins of a building.

“Mutter, bitte, Kartoffel…”

Mama said, “I won’t give you anything. Maybe you killed my son.”

The German was taken aback and said nothing. Mama went on…Then she turned back, took out a few potatoes, and gave them to him.

“Here, eat…”

Now I was taken aback…What is it? During the winter we took rides several times on frozen German corpses. They could be found outside town long after the war. We used them as sleds…You could kick the dead man with your foot. We jumped on them. We went on hating them.

Mama taught me…That was my first postwar lesson in love…

“GRANDPA WAS BURIED UNDER THE WINDOW…”

Varya Vyrko EIGHT YEARS OLD. NOW A WEAVER.

I remember winter, cold winter. In winter our grandfather was killed.

They killed him in our courtyard. By the gate.

We buried him under our window…