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

…Behind the house, by the meadow, some men were doing exercises, swimming in the river. Splashing, shouting, laughing, chasing each other, like our village boys. Only mama allowed me to play with the boys, but here she was scared and shouted that I mustn’t leave the cottage. When I asked, “Who are those men?” she answered in a frightened voice, “Germans.” Other kids ran to the river and brought back long, thin candy…They offered me some…

During the day, those same men marched along our streets. They shot all the dogs that barked at them.

After that, my mother forbade me to show myself outside during the day. I sat at home all day with my cat.

…We’re running somewhere…The dew is cold. My grandmother’s skirt is wet up to the waist, and my whole dress is wet, and so is my head. We hide in the forest. I dry off in my grandmother’s jacket, while my dress is drying. One of our neighbors climbs a tree. I hear: “Burning…burning…burning…” Just that one word…

…We return to the village. In place of our cottages—black cinders. Where our neighbors lived, we find a comb. I recognize that comb. The neighbors’ daughter—her name was Anyuta—used to comb my hair with it. My mama can’t answer me when I ask where she and her mama are and why they don’t come back. My mama clutches her heart. And I remember how Anyuta used to bring long, thin candy from those men who were merrily bathing in the river. Long as pencils…Very tasty. We didn’t have candy like that…She was pretty, she always got a lot of candy. More than anyone. At night we would put our feet in the ashes to get warm and fall asleep. Warm, soft ashes…

“THE LITTLE TRUNK WAS JUST HIS SIZE…”

Dunya Golubeva ELEVEN YEARS OLD. NOW A MILKER.

War…But we still had to plow…

Mama, my sister and brother went to the fields to sow linseed. They drove off, and an hour later, not more, women came running: “Your people have been shot, Dunya. They’re lying in the field…”

My mother lay on a sack, and the grain was pouring out of it. There were many, many little bullet holes…

I remained alone with my little nephew. My sister had recently given birth, but her husband was with the partisans. It was me and this little boy…

I didn’t know how to milk the cow. She was bellowing in the stable, she sensed that her mistress was gone. The dog howled all night long. So did the cow…

The baby clung to me…He wanted my breast…Milk…I remembered how my sister fed him…I pulled out my nipple for him, he sucked and sucked and fell asleep. I had no milk, but he got tired and fell asleep. Where did he catch cold? How did he get sick? I was little, what did I know? He coughed and coughed. We had nothing to eat. The polizei had already taken away the cow.

And so the little boy died. Moaned and moaned and died. I heard it grow quiet. I lifted the little sheet. He lay there all black, only his little face was white, it remained clean. A white little face, the rest completely black.

Night. Dark windows. Where to go? I’ll wait till morning, in the morning I’ll call people. I sat and wept, because there was no one in the house, not even that little boy. Day was breaking. I put him in a trunk…We had kept our grandfather’s trunk, where he stored his tools; a small trunk, like a box. I was afraid that cats or rats would come and gnaw at him. He lay there, so small, smaller than when he was alive. I wrapped him in a clean towel. A linen one. And kissed him.

The little trunk was just his size…

“I WAS AFRAID OF THAT DREAM…”

Lena Starovoitova FIVE YEARS OLD. NOW A PLASTERER.

All I have left is a dream…One dream…Mama put on her green coat, her boots, wrapped my six-month-old sister in a warm blanket, and left. I sat by the window and waited for her to come back. Suddenly I saw a few people being led down the road, and among them my mama and my little sister. Near our house, mama turned her head and looked through the window. I don’t know whether she saw me or not. A fascist hit her with the butt of his rifle…He hit her so hard that she doubled over…

In the evening, my aunt came, my mother’s sister…She cried a lot, she tore her hair, and called me “little orphan, little orphan.” I heard that word for the first time…

That night I dreamed that mama was stoking the stove, the fire was burning brightly, and my little sister was crying. Mama called to me…But I was somewhere far away and didn’t hear. I woke up in fear: mama called to me and I didn’t answer. Mama wept in my dream…I couldn’t forgive myself that she was weeping. I dreamed that dream for a long time…Always the same. I wanted…and was afraid of that dream…

I don’t even have a photograph of mama. Only that dream…There’s nowhere else I can see mama now…

“I WANTED TO BE MAMA’S ONLY CHILD…SO SHE COULD PAMPER ME…”

Maria Puzan SEVEN YEARS OLD. NOW A WORKER.

Forgive me, but when I remember this…I can’t…I…I can’t look another person in the eyes…