Dolik stomped along a meter behind me as we led the cows down the road toward my uncle’s pasture. Strangely, even though Dolik unsettled me, I was grateful for his company. I was getting more worried about what had happened to my uncle.
We tied both cows to a tree to keep them from wandering, then split up so we could check the entire area, calling out Uncle’s name as we went.
The place he most often sat was on a rock at the edge of the pasture. I liked sitting there too, because of the view of the roads and farms. I climbed up onto the rock, shouting Uncle’s name, but he didn’t answer. I turned, looking in all directions. No Uncle Roman. In the distance, I noticed the distinctive blue tile on the roof of Auntie Polina Semko’s farmhouse. She was really an elderly distant cousin, but my sister and I called her Auntie. I had been at that farm when I was little, for a wedding. Most of the land had been taken over by a Soviet commune, but that blue roof never changed.
Dolik met back up with me, his brow creased. “Let’s switch sides and try again.”
About fifteen minutes later he shouted. I spotted him on the rock where I had stood, waving Uncle Roman’s yellow handkerchief like a flag.
I ran over to him.
Uncle Roman lay curled on his side, deep in the brambles behind the rock. I pushed through, ignoring the thorns as they cut into me. The back of his shirt was a wet slick of blood.
Sometimes a shock is so bad that it seems you’re watching your own actions from above. That’s how it was for me. I lay my head on Uncle’s back and begged him to get up.
“I think he’s dead, Krystia,” said Dolik, placing a palm on Uncle’s neck. “Feel how cool he is.”
I didn’t want to believe it, and clung to Uncle Roman’s body, begging him to wake up.
Dolik wrapped his arms around me and gently pried me away. “Take a deep breath.”
I forced myself to think. An image crowded my thoughts. “It was the soldiers.”
“What soldiers?”
“Half a dozen Soviets passed this way,” I said. “And I heard shots, but I thought they were shooting into the air. Why would they shoot an old man looking after his cow?”
“Listen. We need to get the cows home safely,” said Dolik. “But we also need to get your uncle’s body out of here.”
Dolik was right. But I couldn’t think it all through.
“Can you stay here with him?” asked Dolik. “I’ll get help.”
“Go,” I said.
Dolik nodded and left.
Even with Uncle Roman lying dead in front of me, I found it hard to believe that he was truly gone. Poor Borys and Josip and Auntie Iryna—their hearts would be broken. The pain of my own father’s death was still as deep as if it had just happened. And now my cousins and auntie had their own horrible loss. My entire being ached with sorrow.
I looked down at my good skirt and shirt—both now covered with the red of blood and raspberries. I fell to my knees, hugged Uncle Roman, and wept.
July 1, 1941
The day after Uncle Roman’s funeral, I went out to take Krasa to the pasture as usual, but a crowd of people stood in front of our church, hugging one another, laughing, and crying. Our neighbor Valentina Zhuk was in the crowd. She noticed me, ran across the road, and wrapped me in her arms. “It’s happened,” she said. “Ukraine is free!”
“So the Soviets are truly gone?”
“They are!” she said. “Look at the poster on the church door. It’s a proclamation of statehood for Ukraine, independent of Germany and the Soviet Union.”
I ran back into the house to wake Mama and Maria and tell them the good news. We hugged one another and twirled around the bedroom.
“Let us go tell Auntie Iryna,” said Mama. “This news might cheer her a little.”
Auntie was sitting at her kitchen table, her eyes brimming with tears. “How I wish my dear Roman were still alive to witness this. And that Borys and Josip were here!” She looked up. “I heard all about it on Anya’s hidden wireless. The Ukrainians are broadcasting from the Lviv station. We have our independence!”
By midmorning, the poster had disappeared and huge German tanks rumbled in from the west. The slave camps, executions, hunger—these were over now. For the first time in my life, I was free. I was so excited that I threw flowers in the street. Some of the women made braided rounds of bread to welcome the German Commandant.
I stood in front of our house with Mama and Maria and watched the parade as it passed down St. Olha Street. Across the road, Nathan cheered, while Mr. and Mrs. Segal snapped pictures, just the way they always did. These Germans seemed so scrubbed and orderly compared to the ragtag Soviets. These soldiers brought us coffee and chocolate—far different from the two years of hunger, murder, and terror the Soviets had brought us. We were giddy with relief.
They made a big vat of soup in front of our church and invited all of us young people to have some. The lineup snaked down beyond the water pump at the end of our street.
Maria headed for the back of the line because Nathan was waving to her from there. I followed a few steps behind, but Dolik called out from higher up in the line, “Krystia, you can get in here.”
I still felt a bit awkward around Dolik, but since Uncle Roman’s death, I had begun to revise my opinion of him. He wasn’t really all that unfriendly and he could be interesting to talk to. I stepped in front of him and Leon, crowded in friendly silence and moving ahead bit by bit.
One soldier stirred the huge pot of soup with a long wooden spoon, and another stood beside him, pouring one ladleful at a time into the outstretched bowls. The Commandant stood off to one side, the metallic SS on his collar glittering as it caught the sun.
Father Andrij stepped out of his house. This was the first time I had seen him since he’d gone into hiding from the Soviets. He walked up to the Commandant and the two men seemed to get into an intense discussion. The Commandant smiled.
Father Andrij nodded to him and pried off the planks of wood that had blocked worshippers from the church during the Soviet occupation. He turned to the crowd and cried, “Commandant Hermann says the church is now open!”
A ripple of excited cheers erupted.
The soldiers continued to ladle out soup, and before I knew it, it was my turn.
When we got back to our side of the street, Mama called, “Dolik, Leon, come in and eat with us. Your parents are already inside.”
The room was crowded. Mr. and Mrs. Segal were deep in conversation with Mr. Kitai and Doctor Mina. Auntie Iryna was setting out spoons on the table. Her eyes were pink, and she was very quiet. The excitement of our new freedom was tempered by her loss and not knowing where Borys and Josip were.
And that’s when I noticed Uncle Ivan. I hadn’t seen him since the Soviets had set fire to his printing shop. He towered over Doctor Mina, and his clothing looked rough compared to the beautiful blue shawl she had draped over her shoulders.
I set my bowl on the table, then went over to him.
“There’s my favorite oldest niece,” he said, giving me a bear hug.
“I missed you so much, Uncle. I’m glad you’re safe.”
He released me but held me at arm’s length. “Your mother tells me what a good help you and Maria are. I’m glad for that. Now, let us sit down to this good soup and the company of friends and family.”
Mr. Kitai had set chairs from his own house around our small table. He looked up at me and grinned, the glass from his black-rimmed spectacles catching a glint of sunlight from the window. I smiled back at him. If my own father were still alive, would he look like Mr. Kitai? They would have been about the same age.
Just then Maria came in, balancing her bowl of soup. Nathan followed a few steps behind. As I looked around our crowded table, I felt almost happy. This was a true celebration.
“Let us thank God for this food,” said Uncle Ivan. “And let us thank God for our many friendships.”
We ate together in happy silence, savoring each spoonful. This wa
s the most food I had eaten in a very long time.
Uncle Ivan leaned back in his chair and turned to Mr. Kitai. “Herschel,” he said, “thank you for providing the paper and ink for our posters.”
“My pleasure,” said Mr. Kitai. “Let me know when you need more.”
It took me a moment, but then I understood. “Uncle,” I said, “was it you who printed the posters about Ukrainian independence?”
Uncle Ivan grinned.
“So your printing press is not destroyed?”
“Not at all. Just well hidden.”
“That is wonderful,” I said. “But are we truly independent? The poster disappeared and the Germans seem to be in charge.”
“The Ukrainians got to Lviv right after the Soviets fled and before the Germans arrived,” said Uncle Ivan. “They seized the radio station and posted signs all over, declaring Ukrainian independence. They still have control of the Lviv radio transmitter.”
“So are we free?” I asked.
“Well …” said Uncle Ivan. “It’s a ploy. The proclamation was a complete surprise to the Germans, but I don’t think they’ll be too quick to say anything, because right now the crowds see the Germans as our liberators. We’re hoping the Germans will realize it’s in their interest to support Ukrainian independence.”
“And you know the saying,” said Mr. Kitai. “Good things come from the West, bad things come from the East.”
I listened in silence as the conversation continued. I hoped Uncle Ivan was right, but I couldn’t help but feel queasy. These Germans did seem friendlier than the Soviets, and they had given us food and opened up the church. But for all their cleanliness and friendliness, they were still invaders.
And their flag was bloodred, just like the flag of the Soviets. I hoped that things would change for the better. After all, how could the Germans possibly be worse?
Over the next few days, the Germans settled into the buildings and houses that had been abandoned by the Soviets just days earlier. Floods of German-speaking refugees came into town on the heels of the army. These people did not speak our languages, and they didn’t know our town or our customs, yet they were given jobs and were assigned the houses of people the Soviets had previously deported or executed.
Each day was filled with necessary chores. Mama still cleaned at Doctor Mina’s and picked up other odd jobs as she could.
Once, as I was bringing home a pail of water, a uniformed woman with her brown hair pulled back into a tight bun stood waiting at our door.
“May I help you?” I asked, setting the pail down.
“Is this where Kataryna Fediuk lives?”
“That’s my mother,” I said. Had she done something to annoy the Germans? My heart pounded so hard I thought it would explode. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
The woman’s forehead creased. “She’s not in trouble. I just need to ask her something.”
I exhaled. “This is where we live, yes, but my mother isn’t home. She works as a cleaner.”
“I have the right place, then,” the woman said. “Didn’t she clean the Tarnowsky house before the Soviet occupation?”
“She did,” I said, surprised that this German would know that. It was a job Mama had taken soon after Tato died in 1936, to help make ends meet. But then the entire Tarnowsky family had been executed by the Soviets because they were rich.
“The Commandant will be living there now,” said the woman. “He asked me to locate some of the old staff. Tell your mother she will start tomorrow.” The woman didn’t even wait for a reply before she turned and left.
When Mama got home and I told her about her new job, she sank down heavily in a kitchen chair. “That is a big place and a lot of work, but a job is a job.”
Meanwhile, the radio continued to broadcast news of Ukrainian independence for three days. But then the announcements suddenly stopped.
I worried about my cousins Borys and Josip. I also hadn’t seen Uncle Ivan, except for the day the Germans arrived. Why hadn’t they and the other Ukrainians come out of hiding? It also worried me that the Ukrainian independence poster had disappeared so quickly. Every hour stretched out with me holding my breath, waiting to hear about whether my uncle and cousins were safe.
These new Germans were definitely settling in and making Viteretz their own. As I went about my daily chores, I noticed that each day more empty houses were filling up with either soldiers or newly arrived German families. And with so many Germans around, we were all getting more practice in speaking the language.
These new invaders were cleaner and more orderly than the Soviets, but they both had some things in common. Just like the Soviets, the Germans seemed keen on creating lists, but where the Soviets’ lists were about money and education, the Germans’ were about heritage. They even had researchers go through the birth records, all the way back to grandparents. They seemed most interested in German and Jewish heritage. I wondered what the Germans were up to with these lists.
To take my mind off it all, I plunged into my work, like taking Krasa to pasture, milking her, and selling whatever was left to our neighbors, either as milk, butter, or cream.
One morning when I tapped on the Segals’ door to let them know their milk and butter were on the step, the door opened. “Krystia,” said Mrs. Segal. “I’ve been meaning to show you something.”
“I can’t stay,” I said, pushing my handcart into a shady area beside her house. “There are more deliveries to be made.”
“It will only take a moment,” she said, beckoning me in.
The layout of her house was similar to ours, but they had three back rooms to our one, and instead of a cowshed, they had a modern outhouse. The floor of their main room had an intricately patterned wool carpet that felt nice on the soles of my feet. Mrs. Segal’s cane leaned up against the wall—she’d had polio when she was younger—but instead of using the cane, she steadied her balance by holding on to furniture. “Come to the darkroom.”
My nose wrinkled at the sweet tang of the film-developing chemicals and I blinked a few times to get used to the darkness. Curved papers hung on what looked like a miniature clothesline.
“They’re dry now,” Mrs. Segal said, unclipping one and handing it to me.
It was a picture of Mama, with me and my sister. It had been taken as the Germans paraded down our street. Mrs. Segal’s camera had caught me as I’d launched a flower into the air.
“What a wonderful photograph,” I said, and I really meant it. But why did looking at it make me feel so sad? I handed it back to her.
She smiled. “It’s for you, Krystia.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I will cherish this.”
Dolik was standing by my handcart when I stepped back outside.
“There you are,” he said. “I noticed your cart sitting here and wondered what had happened to you.”
“Mrs. Segal gave me a photograph,” I said, showing it to him.
He looked at it carefully. “Very nice. Your whole family together. I like how she captured the flower in midair.”
His comment about my whole family—now I knew what bothered me about the picture. It reminded me yet again that my father was gone. A familiar sadness washed over me, but I took a deep breath and willed it away. What good would it do to always feel sorry for myself? It wouldn’t bring Tato back.
I took the photo from Dolik and tucked it into my pocket. “Aren’t you supposed to be delivering medicines for your mother?” I asked him.
“She doesn’t have them ready yet, so I thought I’d walk with you.”
It was such a sweet thing to do that I couldn’t help but smile. Why had I ever thought Dolik was unfriendly? It wasn’t his fault that my father was dead.
We walked to the rest of the houses and delivered the milk, butter, and cream. Along the way we chatted.
“What’s going on with your cousins?” Dolik asked. “I never see them around lately.”
“I wish I knew.”
“Hopefully you’ll hear something soon. It must be hard on your aunt not knowing where her sons are, especially when her husband has just been buried.”
“You’re right. I should go over and help Auntie Iryna more. I’m sure she could use the company.”
After my last delivery, Dolik went back to his house to see if his mother had the medicines ready. Instead of going immediately home, I visited Auntie Iryna for a bit, then stopped by the Fediuk Brothers’ Blacksmith Shop, which had been run by Tato and Uncle Roman. The shop was on the same side of the street as our house, halfway between us and Auntie Iryna. I pushed open the door and was enveloped in cool darkness and the distinctive scent of beeswax and linseed oil.
All at once, my mind filled with an image of my father poised at his work stool, his face illuminated by coal fire. I used to sit quietly in the corner of this shop, watching as he worked the bellows to heat the forge. The back of his neck would glisten with sweat. It was like magic, seeing him transform a piece of iron into a horseshoe or hammer. Once each item was completed, he’d coat it with a mixture of beeswax and linseed oil to keep it from rusting.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw that Uncle Roman had been in the midst of making a tiny hacksaw. I picked it up and set it on the palm of my hand. The handle was finished and sealed, and the blade was cut, but the pieces hadn’t been bolted together.
On a nearby shelf were nearly a dozen tiny hacksaws lined up neatly, coated in oil and wax. Why had Uncle Roman left them out in the open? Surely the Soviets had known what they were for. Many people had one of these tucked into a cuff of a sleeve or the brim of a hat. That way, if the NKVD arrested you and threw you in a boxcar, you could try to cut your way out by sawing through the hinges of a door or a barred window. With the Soviets gone, would these be needed anymore? But Uncle Roman had made them—they were likely the last things he’d made before he died. I bolted together the one he was working on, rubbed it with a cloth that smelled of oil and wax, and lined it up with the others on the shelf.
Don't Tell the Nazis Page 2
