Six Thousand Miles to Home

by Kim Dana Kupperman

  Fortune was their blessing; not everyone had retained their possessions. Josefina didn’t want to give in to believing in miracles, not until they survived this particular aspect of the war. Their deportation, she hoped, was merely an aspect, a point on an as-yet-unknown timeline, which would culminate eventually in a different life, one playing out in peacetime, one that saw a return to their familiar ways of living. Or, at least, a peacetime in which someone admitted how wrong it was that she and the children were arrested for a crime they not only didn’t commit but didn’t even know existed. Given the reality of where they found themselves, it was miraculous that she and the children still had their rucksacks, boots, and worn but nonetheless neatly patched coats. In the hems of their clothing, money was sewn. The watch Julius had given Peter for his sixteenth birthday was tucked into a secret pocket Josefina had sewn into her coat, and her wedding band was secured in her right shoe, two artifacts from another life with a husband whose fate was unknown. They were exhausted, hungry, and frightened, but they were free of disease. Peter’s resourcefulness in the boxcar had alleviated some small part of everyone’s suffering. Caring for Kasia had distracted Suzanna and reminded others it was possible to remain human. They were spared something, but Josefina wasn’t sure what it was. It was all she could do to stay awake when she needed to be alert, or sleep when rest was required. Hunger had blunted her mind, whose clarity she struggled to maintain.

  After they were ordered off the trucks, they stood in the center of what was called the zona, an expanse of bare, flat ground upon which barracks had been built. The camp administrator, colloquially called the zovchoz, spoke in Russian; another man translated what he said into Polish. The Soviet man was repeating Communist ideology: Labor was a cure for their crimes, he told them earnestly, “a means for transformation.” Not working—well, if you didn’t want to transform yourself, such a desire was considered sabotage and would be punished. As he spoke, Josefina scrutinized his face. His skin was weathered, and he was not unkind looking, in spite of the propaganda he offered them—they who were on the verge of collapse. He seemed the type of man with whom one might curry favor through honest means. Failing that, of course, he might be the sort to accept a bribe. It was equally possible he’d arrest anyone who attempted to buy his kindness, or scoff at the idea that someone should be treated differently. For all of the Soviet Union’s virtues he extolled, he sounded weary, which made him appear thoughtful, at least to Josefina. Yet it was hard to discern any longer the character or intentions of strangers. If he were so thoughtful, they’d all be in clean-sheeted infirmary beds, restoring themselves after almost three weeks of near starvation. Instead, he was telling the arrivals—he called them zeks, or prisoners—they’d have three days of rest before having to report to work.

  “And what will your labor be?” he asked and just as quickly answered his question. The strong would harvest timber, to help build the great and mighty Soviet Union. The weaker among them would gather brush. He explained they would be divided into brigades, expected to deliver a daily quota called a “norm,” and fed accordingly. Of course what he didn’t say was that almost no one came remotely close to accomplishing these norms, which meant almost everyone received fourteen to eighteen ounces of “bread” for the whole day and very thin soup three times daily. Distribution of food, he told them, was made in rations called “kettles,” and these varied in terms of how close one came to fulfilling the norm. Punishment kettles were distributed to those who did not work adequately and thus undermined their brigade—and, they mustn’t ever forget, the entire camp. These kettles consisted of ten to fourteen ounces of “bread” and one meal of the worst quality soup. “You work to eat,” he said bluntly. They would work from six in the morning to six in the evening. He didn’t explain how they’d be awake at 4:00 AM, counted before the morning meal, marched into the forest, marched back to the camp after sunset, and counted again before and after the evening meal. But he did say how generous it was for the state to excuse them from laboring if the temperature fell below minus 140° F or if they had a fever of 102.2° or more. They would enjoy one day of rest every ten days, and on that day they would bathe, have their clothing disinfected, and attend meetings where they would learn about the heroic proletariat. Any young children in the settlement would attend school. There would be no practice of religion of any kind, nor would they talk of going home. This was their home. The Mariskaya ASSR. The boreal forest known as the taiga. Where the mosquitoes and bedbugs were starving, too. The wolves waiting. Where weather and Spartan living conditions fortified the working person.

  “Not to worry,” he said, “you’ll get used to it.” The interpreter added, “And if you don’t, you’ll die.”

  JOSEFINA SENSED THE IMPORTANCE of securing a spot in the barracks sooner than later. They would have to fiercely guard their belongings, because without the provisions they had managed to keep, they would not survive this place. She pulled the children close. Her charges now included Kasia, who, hungry and weak, lay cradled in Suzanna’s arms.

  Peter was the most adept at understanding and speaking Russian, and so Josefina delegated to him the task of talking to the zovchoz. “Peter,” she said in a low, soft voice, “take this.” She discreetly pressed a folded, hundred-ruble note into his hand, which she had earlier extracted from her coat hem. “Give this to him,” she whispered, “for a better place to sleep. Tell him—”

  “Don’t worry, Mother,” her son said. “I know what to say.”

  The zovchoz finished explaining the rezhim, or rules, and readied to assign these new arrivals their living quarters in the barracks. Peter had made his way forward and took the first spot in the line without attracting attention or protest. Josefina watched as he addressed the man. Had they been anywhere else under more civilized circumstances, she might have beamed with pride, but here she observed her son without expression, averting her eyes lest she appear too eager, too obvious, too desperate. She was pleased—her son was speaking just as his father would have, in an inconspicuously firm yet courteous manner. When the zovchoz looked toward Josefina, she looked to the ground, hoping the man would think her modest. But they had made eye contact ever so briefly, and when they did, the man withdrew his gaze. Peter had successfully negotiated them into a better spot in the barracks.

  Better, of course, was relative to conditions impossible to imagine, but for Josefina, Suzanna, and Kasia, better translated into the upper bunk in the corner near the stove, at the far end of the room, opposite the primitive door, which admitted dust in the summer and, when winter arrived, the cold. Better meant—and this was the sign that the zovchoz might be a decent man—an allotment of netting, which would protect them from the mosquitoes that thrived in these dense forests. Better also provided a flask of kerosene, to swab on the planks and keep the bedbugs at bay. And finally, better meant hay, to pad the hard boards where they were to sleep. Or tried to sleep.

  The bedbugs afflicted the other deportees quartered with them, at least twenty in their compartment of the barrack. They moaned and scratched and moaned more loudly until they cried. One began muttering—the start of the madness fever, Josefina called it privately. And so she shared the precious kerosene with her neighbors, a gesture that guaranteed some small measure of respect and would be acknowledged, perhaps, with some future favor that might mean the difference between death or survival.

  She lay atop the hay, her face covered in the square of netting she had temporarily pinned to a woolen cap deep in the bottom of her rucksack, packed all those months ago when Julius was still with them and they lived in a room in Lwów. Survival: Josefina Kohn pondered the word, one she hadn’t paid much attention to previously, though her husband had given her some instruction regarding the practical ways to be prepared. She had listened, dutifully learning how to put as much as possible into a small bag, how to carry necessities on one’s person. Julius’s caution and instruction, which at first seemed exaggerated, were now proving useful. In
Lwów, survival had been a conscious act, which consisted mostly of getting by and not being noticed by the NKVD while readying oneself mentally and physically to be arrested by them. Before that, in Warsaw and on the road, survival had been arbitrary—you were either in the wrong or right place when the bombs fell or when the Nazis came. In the train that brought them to the taiga, survival was some combination of luck and will. But here in this forestry camp, where winter was certain to arrive sooner and be harsher than any Josefina had ever known, here survival was material. It would depend entirely on having the means to consume enough calories and endure the weather, vermin, and the certain illnesses that resulted from exposure to such conditions. Along with the demoralizing atmosphere that might claim one’s sanity at any moment.

  The one constant factor of their survival these past ten months, Josefina realized—the thing that had given them an advantage each time their lives hung in the balance—was the mercy of other people. She thought of these beneficent people now: Mr. and Mrs. Kosinski. In her mind, she beheld the broken teacups and saucers scattered about the floor of that spotless kitchen. Josefina wondered about the girl with one shoe in Mr. Kosinski’s cart and how she might have fared. Did he keep her with him? Did she run away? Were they both now hiding, wounded—or worse, dead? In Lwów, the Ukrainian landlady, though she was severe and spoke little, had provided them with a clean, warm room for a reasonable price. She had never denounced them. Eric, Henry, and Fred Zehngut shared the bit of Teschen and goodwill they had brought with them to their exile and did not expect anything in return. The nuns at Brzuchowice, their black-and-white habits snapping as they walked, had taken in Julius’s mother, Ernestyna. The people at the Lwów train station—complete strangers with lives and worries and dreams of their own—took pity on the deportees and gave them their own meager rations of bread and sausage and cigarettes and aspirin. Aside from the zovchoz, whose help had been purchased, who in this camp would help them survive?

  They settled in as best they could. Soon she fell into a deep slumber. But before she drifted into sleep, Josefina promised herself to never get used to this substandard way of living to which the Soviets had grown accustomed. To which they expected prisoners to adapt or die. We will leave this place, she vowed.

  DREAMS OFFERED LITTLE RELIEF. Anxieties suppressed during waking hours surfaced, triggering vivid nightmares: in one, Josefina was locked inside a boxcar, completely alone. In another, bombs exploded as the train traveled east. One side of the wagon was completely open, revealing urban and rural landscapes—one after another—smoldering in ruins. When the train finally stopped, Josefina found herself in Teschen. The town was intact, it was a fine, spring day, and people were out and about, dressed as if for some special occasion. Overjoyed, she jumped from the train. Her father and brother Arnold stood on the platform. Milly was holding little Eva. Even Helmut was there, coming toward her and wagging his tail. But as Josefina approached her relatives and tried to greet them, she realized they couldn’t see or hear her because she was no longer alive. They walked right past her and when they did, she became aware of holding Julius’s hand, and that they couldn’t see him, which meant he was dead, too. She tried to call out, but she had become mute. She followed them, only to discover they were on their way to a funeral—for her and Julius.

  “They left home in a car and came back in caskets,” her father repeated.

  “No, Papa,” she tried to say, “I am right here!” But the words caught in her throat, and she coughed so hard she woke herself up.

  At first, Josefina was certain she was at home, that it was Julius beside her whose breath rose and fell. Then she realized it was Suzanna and Kasia who were asleep next to her, nestled together as one. She understood exactly where she was and how she had come to be there. Her disappointment triggered a heartache that threatened to consume her. Go ahead, she told herself when she could no longer contain the sorrow overwhelming her, cry long and hard. But this will be the last time you shed any tears.

  To Count One’s Blessings

  END 1940, MARISKAYA LABOR CAMP

  SUMMER YIELDED TO FALL, with its frosted nights and mornings. Autumn was brief in this land, starting with rains and mud and ending with the November winds bringing winter. Josefina and the children were fortunate to have arrived when berries were abundant in the woods and to know which mushrooms, equally plentiful, were safe to eat. They were blessed to have proper footwear, to not have starved, to be in relatively sound health. When winter came, no one was ready for it, not even those zeks lucky to have coats and boots. Work went on as always, though the prisoners were exempt from laboring or walking outside once temperatures fell to minus 140° F. Illness ravaged the prisoners. Medical care, medicine, and supplies were mostly absent.

  Peter had never labored physically, but he was fit. Like his father, he was an excellent swimmer and high diver and he played tennis. Like his mother, he skied. He hiked, climbed trees, and cycled. With the exception of the three weeks spent traveling to the camp, he had maintained a daily calisthenic routine ever since the hasty departure from Teschen. In Lwów, although certain foods were no longer abundant, one managed to eat, if not well, at least enough. Before Julius was arrested, he had taken his son aside and advised him to stay strong.

  “Should the Russians take you captive,” his father said, “you want to have food in your belly.”

  Peter nodded solemnly. He had followed his father’s advice and ate whenever food was available. He wanted to be the best son and brother he could be. The months in Lwów had been a rehearsal. He had kept himself fed and exercised and alert. He learned the language of the new administrators of the city and observed the behavior of this new regime’s soldiers. He had, once his father was taken away, watched over his mother, grandmother, and sister. Perhaps most importantly, Peter had learned to pick his battles, listen without appearing to eavesdrop, speak without providing too much information, and assess as strategically as possible the consequences of his actions.

  But the real performance, the test of his mental and physical skills, would take place not in autumn or summer or spring in what was once Poland, but in winter, here, tucked into the taiga in the Mariskaya ASSR lumber camp. Here, the primary labor was the harvest of timber. Peter would have a chance to prove he was the best. Fortunately, his brigade leader, Vladimir Antonovich, seemed to like him. Perhaps, Peter thought many years later, he had seen an eagerness to excel, a quality that Peter would one day recognize in his own sons.

  The brigade leader had taken Peter aside their first day in the camp. “You are very strong,” the man said, “maybe strong enough to exceed the norm. More food for you. Better for the whole camp.”

  On his first day in the forest in July, deep in that dense wood, Peter took stock of the trees: pine and spruce, mostly, but also birch, and less common, oaks and elms. From sojourns in the Beskidy Mountains, where he and his family skied and hiked and had gathered mushrooms and berries, to outings with school friends in the eastern forests of Poland, Peter had cultivated a nose for bark and needle, cone and leaf, sap and resin. He made note of where the mushrooms were. Moss was plentiful here—the kind you could burn in a comet, the little portable stove his father had taught them how to make. And there were even some mosses one could eat. Pine needles, rich in vitamin C, would become an important part of their diet. The mosquitoes were a problem, but his mother had fastened to his wool cap some netting, which he pulled down over his face. Peter knew the other zeks coveted the things he had, and to assuage their envy, he worked hard, respected the older men, and helped, when he could, those in need of assistance.

  The prisoners in this camp were tasked with felling primarily the tall Scottish pines, which were to be used as telegraph, and, later, telephone poles all over the Soviet Union. Each brigade consisted of several teams: Two men cut the towering trees with a bow saw. Another team unearthed the remaining stumps with shovels. Another was charged with hacking off branches. The men used tools that were
, for the most part, damaged, in ill repair, or broken, which slowed and sometimes hindered the work and caused injuries. A separate brigade of women gathered and sorted and bundled and loaded the sawn-off branches. The downed trees were hauled in two ways: Pushed, one long log at a time. Or, pulled by several two- and three-man teams using metal chains wrapped round the tall trunks, under which dowels were inserted to roll the giant logs. The chains, many of them with rusty links, often broke, sometimes causing fatal accidents. Long trucks transported the timber to a base at the rail track. There, other prisoners came to stack the logs into a structure in which air circulated and dried them. The giant logs were piled six feet high. Once they completed twelve hours of labor, all the prisoners returned to the camp on foot.

  AFTER THOSE FIRST DAYS OF WORKING IN THE WOODS, Peter was exhausted as he had never been before. His mother and sister were diligent and did their best. Though neither complained, Peter knew they could not take this pace or type of work. Both of them were rapidly thinning. Their hands were raw from the gathering and bundling of branches (Josefina insisted they save their gloves for the imminent cold weather.) They both looked as if they’d collapse in a light breeze. Once winter came, everyone knew things would only worsen. And the girl Kasia was very weak. Exempt from work because of her young age, she relied on others to feed her, which meant they were sharing precious rations already inadequate to nourish one person.