大象传媒

VERA鈥橲 STORY (Part one)

This story was submitted to my personal page on the People鈥檚 War site by Julia Reynell, and has been added to the site with Vera鈥檚 permission. The author fully understands the terms and conditions.

Mrs Vera Smereka was born in Eastern Ukraine in 1923. She has written the story of her life of which this is a resume by me, Julia Reynell. The book has not been published.

She describes what she remembers as an idyllic childhood with her parents and younger brother and sister in the country in Ukraine but it must have been very hard as her father was an Orthodox priest who was continually hounded out of his jobs and even temporarily forbidden to practise as a priest. By 1942 he was back in a village parish. Vera describes with much love the services and rituals of the church and the community, particularly the festivals of Easter and Whitsun.

In the late 1930s the family moved to the city of Krolevets in a harrowing winter journey with their furniture and themselves in a farmer鈥檚 sledge, having to travel through the forest where wolves nearly attacked them. They acquired a small house in Krolevets but both Vera鈥檚 parents had to take whatever jobs they could get. Wherever they lived, the ikon in the corner of the living room with a red oil lamp burning beneath it was the most important place in the house.

After attending various junior schools, always making friends and being a star pupil, Vera entered the Model Grammar School in Krolevets. She was an excellent pupil at school, always enjoying hard academic work, singing in the choir and reciting, and having a particular rivalry with a boy, Nicolas, who was the grandson of a rather better off family. She then gained entrance to the University of Lvov which was a huge adventure as it was far from her home and living was already very different in the West. She worked hard as a student of Ukrainian Philology but also had a part-time job as her parents could not afford the fees and grants were difficult to come by. However, at the beginning of her second year at university war broke out between Russia and Germany, the University closed and Vera had to return home. After a while she got a teaching job in a school and remade friendships with young people in the town.

But in May 1942 the Germans had overrun that part of the country and it was declared that a child from every family must go to Germany. At first it was not clear what they would do but it became obvious that they were going to be used as salve labour. Vera was the one from her family to go. After heart-breaking scenes of farewell to their families and friends thousands of young Ukrainians were ordered onto a goods train and one chapter of Vera鈥檚 book describes the horrendous and very long journey to Berlin.

ON THE WAY TO SLAVERY by Vera Smereka

It was five o鈥檆lock on a glorious morning in May 1942. A huge golden sun shone on the crowd of people gathering the square of the city of Krolevets in East Ukraine. Suddenly the sound of drums, yelled commands and the stamp of marching feet were heard. An army of German soldiers appeared. Tall and severe, they looked strong and frightening. Our people cursed them roundly, the new invaders of our country, but they ordered us to walk to the station. People were crying. Bewildered children looked forlorn, not knowing what was happening to them.

At the station we waited until a piercing whistle announced the arrival of a huge goods train. The doors of the trucks were thrown open and then it started: Oh God! Hundreds of mothers, sons and daughters, friends and relatives were being parted from their loved ones. Cries, screams and laments filled the air. The peaceful May morning turned to the despair of a mass funeral. Mothers were burying their sons and daughters alive in the trucks of the goods train, afraid they would never see them again.

The German soldiers ran round the train driving their captive slaves into the trucks. Thousands of arms stretched towards the open doors where the children cried and screamed, stretching their hands to their mothers and loved ones. A whistle blew and the train moved, slowly at first and then took up speed.

They say that to share grief lessens the pain and despair. As I sat there on my bundle of clothing, silently crying from the agony of parting from everything I loved so dearly, I thought of my mother鈥檚 shocked and despairing face, my brother鈥檚 look taken deep into my heart, my auntie鈥檚 face red from crying with her fingers folded in a blessing and her lips whispering a prayer, and Marusia鈥檚 beautiful face blotched with tears, I felt hurt beyond reason. Tears rolled down my already wet cheeks. I was overwhelmed.

The train gathered speed, the wagons rolled, the wheels clattered, but above all that the noise of the girls鈥� voices made me look around. The sight I saw shocked me. My companions were hysterical. A dark brunette in city clothes, a straight skirt and brown blouse, cried aloud, beating her head on the wall of the wagon and screaming: 鈥滿other, mother, oh, my mother!鈥� Another girl went to her and took her in her arms, trying to comfort her. She had a white scarf over her thick plaited hair and was calm and beautiful. A village girl, I thought.
鈥淪top it Katia!鈥� she said. 鈥淪top it or you will kill yourself. Calm yourself. It won鈥檛 help. Now, now, enough crying.鈥�

Another girl lay on the dirty floor in the corner of the goods wagon (which had been used to transport cattle). She sobbed loudly, her small delicate body shaking. Her lovely blonde hair was tied with a pink ribbon. From the way she was dressed I knew she was from a village. Having comforted one girl, the girl with the plaited hair went to her. She simply sat down on the floor beside her, took her in her arms and nursed her like a baby, said something to her and petted her, trying to persuade her to go to sleep.
鈥淪he is only sixteen鈥� someone whispered. 鈥淎n only daughter and her mother is a widow.鈥�
鈥淧oor Olia鈥� someone sighed, and I was amazed that the girls could forget their own sorrow and sympathise with their friends. I realised that a group of them were from the same village. A small girl in a white scarf got a bottle of water out of her bag and went to Olia.
鈥淗ere is a drink of water. Give it to her, Oksana, she may feel better.鈥�
鈥淎lright. But save some as we have not got any more.鈥�

The wide door of the wagon was open but chained with two German soldiers guarding it. They leant on the thick chains and watched the passing scenery of our beautiful land blossoming in the early spring. Through the open door I also watched the fields, the green valleys with the blue belts of rivers, the flowering orchards and children playing near white houses. How lovely my country is, I thought. Why do those two German soldiers have to be guarding us? We want to live in our land. It is our country. What right do they have to come and take it? And take us away? And I wished I could throw them out of the door so that we could again live our own lives. Oh, how horrible they were!

But the scenery and the beauty of nature called my heart. I stopped crying and sat by the door watching the girls and the passing land. I remembered a song we had learnt that spring. Someone who was being taken away from Ukraine had written the most beautiful words about how sad and homesick he was thinking of the beloved girlfriend he had left at home. She was very beautiful, had gentle blue eyes and wore a jade-green gown tied with a blue belt. Her dark hair fell to her shoulders and her ruby-red lips sang a sad song as she looked at him. But his beautiful girlfriend was not a secret; she was his beloved land 鈥� Ukraine.

Indeed it was beautiful: the green fields and valleys were bounded by blue rivers, the sky was blue and gently warm and from afar the dark forests were like thick plaited hair on the green robes of the land. The sad song from the ruby-red lips said how sad it was that thousands and thousands of young and healthy children, sons and daughters of our mother Ukraine, were being taken away in a goods train. Where to? To Germany, the land of the occupier of our country. As, through the centuries, Polovtsians, Tartars, Turks, Poles and Russians had occupied us and taken our people into slavery, sold them at markets and used them as slave labour. Were we going to be liked them? Slaves in the twentieth century? Oh God! Why did we have to go to Germany?

The sun was rising and it was getting warm. Someone asked for a drink but there was no water. Someone wanted to use the toilet but there wasn鈥檛 one. Just a wagon filled with crying girls guarded by German soldiers.
鈥淲hat are we going to do?鈥� someone asked. There was no answer, only the clatter of the train wheels, chuk-chuk-chuk.
鈥淲ill you ask the Germans what we should do?鈥� But when we tried they only laughed. In the end girls rolled on the floor, full of pain at not being able to pass water and not wanting to disgrace themselves.

It was nearly midday when at last the train stopped. There were fields around and everybody was ordered out to relieve themselves. Boys and girls, surrounded by German soldiers in the middle of a field on a bright sunny day.
鈥淭hat鈥檚 culture,鈥� someone shouted.
鈥淚t will stick in your gullets yet, your culture鈥� answered a brave young voice. Some laughed, some swore, cursing the Germans. After about ten minutes we were ordered back onto the train. Nobody could have run away or hidden because the train had stopped beside an open field.

One trouble being over the girls became more cheerful. I talked to two girls near me who had been at school with me. Natalie was the daughter of one of our teachers. Valia had been in my form. We used to call her the wonder girl. She was always composed and intelligent and appeared not work hard although she always knew all the answers. They were both dressed very presentably, Valia even had a lovely blue hat. They had the idea that they were going to Germany for a visit and therefore should look and behave as well as they could. They stood by the open door and talked to the German soldiers. I was disgusted by this at first but found myself listening, especially when they started to recite Essenin鈥檚 poems 鈥� a forbidden subject in Soviet schools.
鈥淥, my life, you have passed,
Like a fairytale on a white horse . . .鈥� The poems were pessimistic but beautiful and I asked where they had learnt them. Valia held out an old notebook. I was amazed how many poems there were of which I had never head. I copied some of them although my hand was shaky because of the movement of the train.

We formed a small group talking about poetry and I noticed that the other girls gave us sideways glances as though we were strangers. I did not like that as I always liked to mix with people. Besides, the Essenin poems and sentimental talk seemed to be out of place; their sweetness in the dirty wagon was obnoxious. So I went to the other side of the wagon where there was another open but chained door where some girls were sitting on the floor with their legs dangling out. They spoke Ukrainian and I gave them a warm smile and sat on the floor beside them. They did not take much notice of me, as each was busy with her own thoughts and pain. They watched the passing scenery of our country, some of them seeing it for the first time.
鈥淥h look!鈥� shouted one girl. 鈥淐ows! So many cows. Where are they taking them?鈥�
鈥淒on鈥檛 you know鈥� said Oksana. 鈥淭o the slaughterhouse to make sausages for the Germans.鈥�
鈥淎nd the bones for our people. Pigs! Where are they going to get milk from?鈥� Katia said angrily. She sat in the corner by the door. Her curly auburn hair was a mess; her face red from crying and her shoulders still shook from time to time as she watched the passing scenery of fields and valleys, villages and people. People who could still live their own lives.
We waved to the people, especially the children, and they waved back. How wonderful it would be to jump out of the train and join them. But nobody jumped. The train was going at full speed with no stops. Even the bigger stations were ignored and we went fast towards the west.

There was sadness on all the girls鈥� pale and neglected faces. The further we travelled the longer the distance grew from our loved ones at home. More and more everyone realised that they had to face life alone, without the love of a mother, sister or brother, the protection of a father. Those who had left boyfriends felt their hearts torn and painful, as mine was. But our instincts were gaining over our emotions. Hunger and thirst reminded us and, after searching in our bags for food, we managed to eat a little. But there was no water.

The train stopped again and we were allowed to get out. There were trees growing nearby and someone had the idea of bringing green branches into the wagon. Soon every wagon was decorated with green and fresh branches as a last farewell from our native land. The Germans did not say anything so our wishes seemed to triumph over them. We felt as though part of our soil, our beloved Ukraine, was going with us and it cheered us up. Somewhere a song started and the whole trainload burst into loud and powerful singing. The songs changed, sad and desperate songs of our land, sung by slaves who were being carried away into the conqueror鈥檚 land as had happened centuries before.

Oh God! How cruel the life of a conquered nation is. When would there be justice and peace in the world without every nation having to fight for their existence? But the train was taking me further and further from my family, friend and the life I had lived for nineteen years. The life I had planned and built and struggled for. Now I felt dead. Everything that I had had was dead. No wonder Olia lay there in the corner of the wagon half-dead to the world (now that I know what happened to her I wonder if she had a premonition). I felt the same, only I did not lied down but walked and talked among the girls in the wagon.

Towards evening the train stopped at the big station of Konotop. We were told to get out and march in columns of four to an empty school where we would stay the night. We settled on the bare floor of the large school hall. They gave us a piece of bread and some tea, and then someone brought us some sausages, which we shared. We ate our last supper in our own land.

Next morning we were allowed to walk in the streets of the city. I found a market and was tempted to escape to my granny who lived not far away. But I thought of my brother; he would be taken away instead of me, and I was frightened for my parents in case they would also be punished. So I resisted the temptation and found some people who came from the town where my granny lived and asked them to give her a letter. I wrote the letter at one of the empty market stalls and told her of my fate and said goodbye to her as though knowing that I would never see her again.

Back in the train the setting sun disappeared and left us in the cool of evening, rolling us away into the night. As darkness fell the train stopped. After some time straw was pushed into our wagon and we spread it on the floor.
鈥淭his is our new German bed, girls!鈥� someone shouted.
鈥淪leep well, damn them!鈥� and angry voice answered bravely. As we settled to sleep the door was opened and some loaves of bread were placed on the floor. Someone had a knife and equal portions were cut for everyone.
鈥淭hat鈥檚 our supper.鈥�
鈥淏e glad for a piece of dry bread, girls, the butter has been left at home.鈥�
Our two German guards jumped into the wagon. Not taking any notice of our wish to sleep they talked loudly, lit a lantern and hung it above the door. Noisily they opened their cases, took out some bottles of drink, sausages, white bread and butter, and started to eat. We pretended to be asleep but we watched the Germans, every movement of their large bodies among the sleeping girls, and we were very frightened.

(Continued on part two of 鈥榁era鈥檚 story鈥�)

era's Story

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