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

Mama told fortunes. I listened…King of clubs, king of diamonds…A black card—Death. The ace of spades. The seven…The white king—burning love. The black king of spades—a military man. The six of diamonds—a future journey…

My mother came out of the yard smiling, but on the road she cried. It’s terrible to tell people the truth: your husband is dead, your son is no longer among the living. The earth has taken them, they are—there. The cards bear witness…

We stayed overnight in a house. I didn’t sleep…I saw how, at midnight, the women let loose their long braids and told fortunes. Each one opened the window, tossed grain into the dark night, and listened to the wind: if the wind is quiet—the promised one is alive, but if it howls and beats on the window, then don’t wait for him, he won’t come back. The wind howled and howled. It beat on the windowpane.

People never loved us the way they did during the war. During the hard times. Mama knew spells. She could help men and animals: she saved cows, horses. She spoke to them all in their own language.

There were rumors: one camp was shot up, then another…A third was taken to a concentration camp…

The war ended, we rejoiced together. You meet someone and embrace him. There were few of us left. But people still told fortunes and read cards. In the house, under the icon, lies a death notice, but the woman still asks, “Oh, Gypsy woman, tell my fortune. What if he’s alive? Maybe the clerk made a mistake?”

Mama told her fortune. I listened…

For the first time I told the fortune of a girl at the market. She drew “great love.” A lucky card. And she gave me a ruble. I had given her happiness, if only for a moment.

My good one, you, too, be happy! May God be with you. Tell people about our Gypsy fate. People know so little…

Taves bahtalo…God be with you!

“A BIG FAMILY PHOTOGRAPH…”

Tolya Chervyakov FIVE YEARS OLD. NOW A PHOTOGRAPHER.

If something has stayed in my memory, it’s like a big family photograph…

My father is in the foreground with his rifle, wearing an officer’s cap. He wore it even in winter. The cap and the rifle are outlined more clearly than my father’s face. I really wanted to have my own cap and rifle. A little boy!

Next to my father—mama. I don’t remember her from those years, but instead I remember what she used to do: she was constantly laundering something white; she smelled of medicine. Mama was a nurse in a partisan brigade.

My little brother and I are there somewhere. He was always sick. I remember him—red, his whole body covered with scabs. He and mama both cry at night. He from pain, mama from fear that he will die.

And then, in the big peasant cottage which housed mama’s hospital, I see women carrying mugs. The mugs contain milk. They pour the milk into a bucket, and mama bathes my brother in it. My brother doesn’t cry that night, he sleeps. For the first night…In the morning, mama says to my father, “How will I repay the people?”

A big photograph…One big photograph…

“AT LEAST LET ME POUR SOME LITTLE POTATOES IN YOUR POCKETS…”

Katya Zayats TWELVE YEARS OLD. NOW A WORKER ON THE KLICHEVSKY STATE FARM.

Grandma chases us away from the windows…

But she looks out and tells mama, “They found old Todor in the shed…Our wounded soldiers were there…He brought them his sons’ clothes; he wanted them to change so the Germans wouldn’t recognize them. They shot the soldiers in the shed, and brought Todor to his yard and ordered him to dig a pit near the house. He’s digging…”

Old Todor was our neighbor. Through the window we could see him digging a pit. He finished digging…The Germans took away his shovel, yelled something at him in their own language. The old man didn’t understand or didn’t hear because he had long been deaf. Then they pushed him into the pit and made signs for him to get on his knees. And they buried him alive…On his knees…

Everyone became frightened. Who are they? Are they even human? The first days of the war…

For a long time we avoided old Todor’s house. It seemed to everyone that he was shouting from under the ground.

They burned our village so that only dirt was left. Only stones in the yards, and even they were black. There was no grass left in our garden. It was burned up. We lived by charity—my little sister and I went around to other villages, asking people, “Give us something…”

Mama was sick. Mama couldn’t go with us, she was ashamed.

We would come to a cottage.

“Where are you from, children?”

“From Yadrenaya Sloboda. They burned us out.”

They would give us a bowl of barley, a piece of bread, an egg…I thank them all, they all gave something.

Another time we’d cross the threshold, the women would wail loudly, “Oh, children, how many are you? This morning two pair came by.” Or: “Some people just left. We don’t have any more bread, let me at least pour some little potatoes in your pockets.”