by Ingrid Pitt
The cart came into its own shortly afterwards. One of the men found a dead horse and asked if he could borrow it to bring back the meat. As I wasn’t keen to let my prize possession out of my sight, they took me along. The horse had been dead for some time and I found the smell frightening, reminiscent of Stutthof. I watched as the men hacked the swollen carcass to pieces and loaded it on to my cart. In spite of the smell the meat must have been okay as everyone ate great chunks of it and I can’t remember anyone being particularly ill.
Yuri told me that our camp was just one of many that had sprung up in the last year or two. There was much talk about what the partisans would do to spike the Nazi war machine and help the Russians when they arrived, but little was done to implement the ideas. In reality, there was not much they could do for they had few rifles and even less ammunition. The shotguns were needed for hunting and the ammunition for those was so precious that hunting parties sometimes came back empty-handed because they were afraid to shoot unless they had a rabbit practically squinting down the barrel. If we were amazingly lucky the huntsmen might come across a German supply wagon or a train shunted into a siding. On occasions, when the food situation got really wretched, some of the men would raid a farmhouse, but this was attempted only in desperate circumstances as the reward was rarely worth the enormous risk.
When I wasn’t minding Milusia or running after Yuri, I was drawn inexorably to the oldest member of the camp, blind Boris. Borja was large and jolly, and had a halo of white hair and a beard that made him a dead ringer for Father Christmas. Boris had been in Treblinka. With his disability he would have been exterminated straight away but the Germans are very sentimental about Christmas and so his likeness to Santa Claus probably saved him. Whatever the reason, they decked him out in robes, put him in charge of the latrines and gave him the title of ‘Scheissmeister’. When the revolt had come in Treblinka, Borja hadn’t let his blindness hold him back. While everyone else was ducking and diving or fighting, he just walked straight ahead and out of the camp. Yuri told me that Boris had carried a baby out with him but hadn’t been able to look after it so he gave it to someone to care for. When the war was over, he said, he was going to find the baby.
Boris used to sit with me under the leafy canopy, holding Milusia, and tell me wonderful fairy stories about witches and demons, goblins and gnomes, in the dark Russian forests far, far away.
Almost daily, now, there were rumours that we were about to be liberated by the advancing Russian army. Planes flew constantly over the forest and everyone claimed to be able to spot which nation they belonged to. They came and went above the trees so quickly, however, that it was impossible to get a good look. Someone would say, ‘That’s a Messerschmitt!’ Someone else would argue that it was a Yak. I always shouted ‘Spitfire!’ because it was the only name I could remember from the days with my father.
We had been in the partisan camp some time now. Winter was giving way to spring and the sun warmed the earth. Buds appeared overnight and grass pushed up out of the ground. Leaves thrust from stark branches, covering the camp in a light-green blanket.
We decided that it was my mother’s birthday as she had been born on the first day of spring. Tchechia announced that she was going to take us to a special place, deep inside the forest and, carrying Mila, led Mama and me to a small clearing. At the centre was a fire pit. She lit a fire, which was strictly forbidden in case Germans were in the area, and told us to fan the smoke away gently. As we sat by the burning twigs, Tchechia pulled our Stutthof shifts from her bag. She ripped the hated striped cloth into small rags and solemnly laid them into the flames. Tears streamed down Mama’s face, but still she tried to smile at Tchechia. Each year on my mother’s birthday I remember that day when we burned the past.
Because of the better weather, I was able to leave little Milusia behind in a hammock in the open most of the time, and Yuri and I became inseparable. The old ruined castle was our domain. Yuri used to pretend we owned it and were husband and wife. He was just moving into puberty and we indulged in a few innocent ‘show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ games.
One day Yuri and I, with the reluctant help of a few of the men, were ripping up floor planks in the castle to help build up the roofs of the lean-tos. We had filled my little cart and were about to go back when an aeroplane roared overhead, so low everyone ducked, then we heard the sound of it crashing into the trees. We didn’t hang around. Yuri was first at the wreck. When I arrived the three men were standing a safe distance from the plane looking warily at the smoking, hissing carcass. I suppose they expected it to burst into flame at any moment. I had no such hang-up and ran straight for it. I knew it was an English plane because I remembered my father teaching me the RAF insignia: blue and white circles and a red dot.
I heard Yuri shout but I had seen something that the others hadn’t. The pilot was half in, half out of the cockpit and looked in a bad way. Cautiously the men approached the plane. It had settled down now and no longer appeared to be in danger of exploding. Yuri climbed up on to the wing and looked into the cockpit. He shouted for the men to help him get the pilot out of the plane. The pilot was unconscious and blood was leaking from a head wound. One of the men said he thought he had a broken leg. They didn’t seem too concerned about it. Instead, they were interested in seeing what they could scavenge from the plane.
The pilot groaned and woke up. Surprised, I screamed, and the three searching the plane ran back to see what was going on. I suggested that I fetch my cart but the offer was turned down and the men carried the pilot back to the camp. He was unconscious again by the time we arrived.
My mother, the only partisan who could speak English, discovered that the pilot’s name was Mike and that he came from Yorkshire. His injuries were painful but not life threatening and soon he was hobbling about. He suggested that the men fetch from his plane the radio and a little medical kit that had been overlooked. Back in the camp, they fiddled with the wireless for days. I’m not sure what was wrong with it but at last they got something very special. In that little huddle of makeshift hovels in the middle of a Polish forest, backed by a symphony of whistles and crackles of static, the sounds of Big Ben rang out. It was followed by Winston Churchill. Nobody but my mother understood a word, but for once, for a few seconds, everybody felt that something magnificent had been achieved. The station drifted off and the radio shut down – permanently. People have said that the whole incident happened in my mind, that it was impossible to get a radio from an aircraft tuned in to London from Poland. And Churchill and Big Ben. All I know is that it happened. And Churchill said that the Hun was beaten, or words to that effect.
The mood in the camp was very different now. With Mike hobbling around in his uniform and the assurance that in a very short time we would all be free to go home, there was an effort to do something. Volunteers for scavenging parties were easy to find and even dared to go as far as the nearest town. They came back with stories about the Nazis that made us feel our efforts in the forest hadn’t been in vain and, equally sustaining, brought back salt, which improved our stews no end.
Mike was more anxious than anybody to get away. He didn’t relish missing the victory parade. Contact with the town established, his departure became possible and some time later a pony and trap came and took him away. We all stood by the side of the little track where he was picked up and waved a misty-eyed farewell. Once he was out of sight I burst into tears and Yuri moved his heart and actually put his arm around my shoulder.
We were convinced that the Russians were coming. We could hear the far-away rumble of the artillery but it never seemed to get any closer. Every day somebody went down to the road to see what was happening. And each day came back and said the troops would be there on the next. It went on for so long that spirits began to droop. Then the artillery went silent and no one volunteered to go down to the road, so Yuri was sent. Forbidden from accompanying him, I nursed Mila, keeping an eye on the path. Sure enough, Yuri ca
me into the camp at a run, too excited to tell what was happening. Kuragin grabbed him and made him slow down. The Russian front was on its way! Yuri had seen them in the distance and they were definitely heading in our direction. Everybody seemed to be relieved by the news but I was elated. For so long I had heard everyone talk about this idyllic life which would start when the Nazis were overpowered and the Allies came. Now it was happening and the adults merely seemed bemused. Not so Yuri and I.
We rushed off through the trees to the other side of the forest, where our column had been attacked and where my mother and I had lain, pretending to be dead. When the Russians finally appeared it was a wonderful sight to behold. At the front were the tanks, at least fifty of them, then came the artillery, armoured cars, marching troopers, more tanks, horses, hundreds of horses pulling cannons and wagons, more cars, more artillery – everything an army has to have passed us by. Overhead, Russian Migs and Yaks roared. The noise was deafening and exhilarating.
Yuri and I marched along with the soldiers for a little way, but by now it was night and he thought we’d better get back to camp. I couldn’t bear to leave the Russian army, and broke down and cried my eyes out. Yuri was quite patient about it and waited for me to stop. He rolled himself a fag and looked up at the stars twinkling through the trees. I guessed he was bored and embarrassed, so I pulled myself together and we ran back to camp as fast as we could.
Many of the people in the forest were phlegmatic in the face of our excitement. They were sick of fighting, sick of the war and wanted to go home. After a few days we couldn’t hear the front any more, the planes stopped coming over and the artillery had fallen quiet. Everyone hoped that the war was over but no one knew anything for sure.
Meanwhile, my mother had contracted typhus. Soon she was so ill that I believed she would die. She told me to stay away from her, so she didn’t infect me, and to keep the baby away. She thought she was done for. After all she had endured, this was going to be the end. I kept telling her that I could foretell the future and we had a lot to do yet. And what about my papa? We had to find him. He was waiting for us. She tried to smile but it was a hollow attempt.
Everyone debated what to do with Mascha. Kuragin and Boris decided they should take her to the nearest village the next day, but they didn’t know whether there was even a doctor there. It was a big risk. Yuri said they hated lews in that village. They had denounced all their Jews to the Nazis and the SS had then murdered them. I stared at him, stunned, and my breath stopped flowing and my whole body shook in terror. Kuragin took me in his strong arms, rocked me to and fro, and slowly I felt better. He assured me that no one would suspect Mama of being a Jew. She looked like a Polak. Just as I did.
We were laughing about this when the Red Cross arrived at the camp. They were systematically combing the forests looking for bands of partisans who, like us, didn’t know about the end of the war. The news was almost a shock. The war really was over! Suddenly we were all very quiet. The nightmare we had suffered, each in his own way, had been horrendous. To know it was done with released the tears and the pain that everyone had kept locked away.
My mother had a hard time grasping the news. Kuragin told her over and over. He held her head in his hands and said it again. She smiled and said he mustn’t hold her, he’d get infected. ‘We’re safe here,’ she said.
‘No,’ Kuragin insisted. ‘The war is over. Finished. We all go home! You go to hospital and get well!’ Mama started to cry then and Kuragin cuddled her for a while before leaving her to it.
Now that I’d had my cry I was bored with Mama having a go and I shouted at her that it was over, and there was no need to cry. She stretched out her skeleton-like arms and pressed my hand. I threw caution to the wind and clutched her thin body close to me. We banged heads. It made us laugh. We couldn’t stop laughing. We laughed hysterically until we cried and had no more energy.
The Red Cross took us to Kraków hospital. My mother pumped herself up as much as she was able to make the journey. She couldn’t believe that we had survived the impossible. We’d had a lot of luck. If the Nazis hadn’t wanted my father at any price we would probably have been killed with the other refugees in Bialystok. And if it hadn’t been for Steiner, we wouldn’t have survived Stutthof.
Now Mama could allow herself hope to get well, to find my father, hope for a future she had stopped believing in.
Our lives in the forest were over. We said goodbye to the partisans. I loved them all, especially Yuri and Boris and Kuragin, Tchechia and little Milusia. I love the Russian custom of everyone sitting down for a moment to reflect on the journey ahead before parting. We did that, then embraced each other, but of course there were no addresses to exchange and so we all lost each other for ever.
My greatest loss was Yuri. We sat together holding hands. Yuri had his very own way of holding my hand, with so much love. He was strong and kind and understanding. I looked into his green eyes and suspected they were wet. He looked around at everyone, leaned forward quickly and kissed me. I put my arms around his neck and held him tightly to me.
Matka and I were lifted up on to the back of a big truck. As it pulled away, I turned round one last time and yelled at Yuri, ‘Goodbye, husband!’ He laughed and nodded but was having trouble talking. I watched him until we were out of sight. There is a picture in my mind as clear as on the day it was formed: Yuri standing there in clothes too big for him, the rifle he loved to carry even though he had long ago run out of bullets in his arms. Just before we turned a bend and lost sight of each other for good he raised his gun above his head and waved me goodbye. I cried for hours.
Forests for me will always mean Yuri and the partisans. Surely it was the best part of my childhood. The only time I remember without pain.
Seven
Leaving the forest saved my mother’s life. Mine as well, as it turned out. I had a bad case of tuberculosis and needed treatment at once.
The hospital was a frightening place for me. I remember glaring white walls, people in white coats with needles and a large cold machine which burred when I was forced to press my chest against it. I thought the machine would kill me and screamed for my mother.
Having survived the X-ray machine, I was put in a big white bed. Matka was in a different ward from me and I kept asking if I could be with her but it wasn’t allowed. I wanted to get upset but I recognised that the Red Cross nurses and doctors were being very kind to me. They brought me paper and picture books, including one called Gebrüder Grimms Märchen. I so wanted to read it, but my education had been patchy and I found it too hard.
It took seven months to get us back on our feet. Once we were strong enough to leave our beds we were given clothes, shoes, blankets and a small parcel of food, mainly lard biscuits made from grits and oats, and told to move on. There were queues of refugees in need of our beds.
We were taken from the hospital to a huge, partly demolished factory, which had been turned into a large dormitory. Braziers burned day and night but in spite of them it was still freezing cold.
The factory was a depressing place. Endless lines of displaced persons queued for days on end to be interviewed by soldiers, only to be told that the army could do nothing for them. We were advised that if we could get to the next Red Cross station we might find help there. So began a long trek between displaced-persons camps.
I admire my mother enormously. In the camp she had been a survivor. She had kept her head down, sheltered me and had done whatever it had taken to live from day to day, from moment to moment. In the forest she had worked all hours of the day to bring some sort of order to the chaos and make sure that we were still around when deliverance came. These were enforced reactions to circumstances. Our odyssey around the displaced-persons camps was a display of sheer guts and determination. She could have given up at any time. Thousands did. We passed them everywhere, sitting in bombed-out houses, staring ahead, all the fight knocked out of them by the lack of food and the gnawing conviction that ‘ho
me’ no longer existed for them. Matka would have none of that. She was determined to find my father. Unfortunately, she had no clear idea how this could be accomplished. Where would he be? Would he come looking for us? Would we pass each other in the night and be separated for ever? I wasn’t much help although I was nine years old now. Life in the camp and my brush with TB had left me as thin as a rake and with about as much energy as a drink of water.
The only transport that could be relied on at that stage of the aftermath of war was Shank’s Pony. From somewhere, however, my mother dug out a battered old cart. The wheels were at crazy angles and it always seemed on the brink of disintegrating but it helped. I was able to rest on it every so often while my poor mama ploughed on to the next camp, pulling me along.
The Red Cross camps were the desert oases which made it possible to carry on. There you could rest for a couple of days, eat hot food, catch up on your medication and, most important, spend hours scanning the boards around the camp which carried thousands of names and messages. The only names we were interested in were my father’s and my grandparents’ but they were never there.
With winter came the snow and I fell ill again. I spent most of the time on the little handcart, wrapped in whatever rags my mother could find. We lived like bag ladies. Anything which might be useful was loaded on to the cart or put into the bundle wrapped in a blanket that my mother carried over her shoulder. How she survived, day after day in freezing temperatures with minimum nourishment, I’ll never know.
Just when it looked as if, in spite of all her efforts, we were going to be defeated by cold and hunger, we met Pani Philipska. Pani Philipska was an anachronism in that shattered world. Everyone around her looked on the verge of death and she was life. She was little and plump, warm and jolly. She was an oasis of elegance in the displaced-persons camp, with her outrageously blonde hair piled on top of her head, and her chic and expensive clothes. She had come to the camp to try to find her brother who had disappeared at the beginning of the war, when he had had the luck to be away when the Gestapo had come for his family. Pani Philipska had been living with her husband but had been widowed just before the end of the war.
