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

In fifth grade we had started studying French; it was all still fresh in my memory. The German woman asked me something in French, and I answered. They were amazed that they had picked up a girl in a village who was in fifth grade, studied at a ballet school, and even knew French. They were doctors, as I understood, educated people. They had been told that we were savages. Subhumans.

It seems ridiculous now: I was afraid of a rooster, but when I saw the partisans in their Astrakhan hats, sword belts, with stars and machine guns, I said, “Misters, I’m brave. Take me with you.” In the partisan unit, all my dreams were crushed, because I sat in the kitchen peeling potatoes. Can you imagine the mutiny in my soul? For a week I was on duty in the kitchen. Then I went to the unit commander: “I want to be a real fighter.” He gave me an Astrakhan hat with a red ribbon, but I just wanted a rifle. I wasn’t afraid to die.

I returned to mama with the medal Partisan of the Patriotic War, second degree. I went to school and forgot about everything. I played field hockey with the girls, rode a bike. One time, I fell into a bomb crater on my bike, got hurt, saw the blood, and remembered—not the war, but my ballet school. How am I going to dance now? Zinaida Anatolievna Vasilyeva will return soon, and I have an injured knee…

Only I didn’t go back to ballet school. I went to work in a factory, I had to help mama. But I wanted to study…When my daughter was in the first grade, her mama was in the tenth. At night school.

My husband offered me a ticket to the ballet. I sat and cried through the whole performance…

*1 The correct spelling (i.e., pronunciation) is Goleizovsky. Kasyan Goleizovsky (1892–1970) was a Russian ballet dancer and choreographer who made his name in the avant-garde of the 1920s. He had a marked influence on George Balanchine.

*2 The composer Mikhail Kroshner (1900–1942) was born in Kiev and studied in Minsk. He composed in many forms. The ballet The Nightingale (1939) is his most well-known work.

“AND I FIRED INTO THE AIR…”

Anya Pavlova NINE YEARS OLD. NOW A COOK.

Oh, my soul is going to ache…To ache again…

The Germans dragged me into the barn…Mama ran after me, tearing her hair. She screamed, “Do whatever you want with me, just don’t touch my child.” I had two younger brothers. They shouted, too…

We were from the village of Mekhovaya, in the Orel region. From there we were driven on foot to Belarus. From one concentration camp to another…When they wanted to take me away to Germany, mama padded her belly and put my little brother in my arms. That’s how I survived. I was removed from the list.

Oh! Today my soul won’t be still all day and all night. I’m moved, stirred…

Dogs tore children apart…We sat over a torn-up child waiting for his heart to stop. Then we covered him with snow…That would be his grave till spring…

In 1945…after the Victory…mama was sent to build a health center here in Zhdanovichi. I went with her. And so I stayed here. I’ve been working in the health center for forty years…Since the first stone I’ve been here; it all rose up before my eyes. They gave me a rifle, ten German prisoners, and I led them to work. The first time I brought them, women surrounded us: one with a stone, another with a shovel, yet another with a stick. And I ran around the prisoners with my rifle and shouted, “Good women! Don’t touch them…Good women, I signed papers for them. I’ll shoot!” And I fired into the air.

The women cried, and I cried. And the Germans stood there. Never raised their eyes.

Mama never once took me to the military museum. One time she saw me looking at a newspaper with photographs of people who had been shot—she took it away and scolded me.

To this day there isn’t a single book about the war in our house. And I’ve been living without mama for a long time now…

“MY MOTHER CARRIED ME TO FIRST GRADE IN HER ARMS…”

Inna Starovoitova SEVEN YEARS OLD. NOW AN AGRONOMIST.

Mama kissed us and went away…

The four of us were left in the hut: the younger ones—my little brother, my two cousins—and me, the oldest one, seven years old. It wasn’t the first time we were left alone, and we had learned not to cry, to behave quietly. We knew our mama was a scout, she had been sent on a mission, and we had to wait for her. Mama had taken us away from the village, and we now lived together with her in a partisan family camp. It had long been our dream! And now—our happiness.

We sit and listen: the trees rustle, women are doing laundry nearby, scolding their children. Suddenly a call: “Germans! Germans!” Everybody runs out of their huts, calling children, fleeing farther into the forest. But where should we run, alone, without mama? What if mama knows that Germans are coming to the camp, and she’s running to us? Since I’m the oldest, I order, “All of you keep quiet! It’s dark here, and the Germans won’t find us.”