away, and as the next few weeks and months passed we heard all about the Nazi drive to the east. They’d captured Kiev and were advancing into Russia, moving like a swarm of metal clad vipers towards Moscow. They seemed unstoppable. As the front moved further east, things calmed down in our village, and life became a little more settled. There were still plenty of soldiers around, but not quite as many as when the Nazis first arrived.
It was around the summer of that year, 1942, that the trains started running again, delivering goods, equipment and mail from the west, from across the border and beyond. These deliveries took place almost daily. Often, my friends and I would stop off near the train tracks on our way to school in the fuzzy haze of the summer mornings. We’d stand on top of an embankment, watching the sunrise, breathing in the warm air and drinking in that golden sun. We’d wait, with a misty silence swirling around our shoulders. We boys pierced through it by shouting, laughing and by fooling around in general. We collected big stones and threw them across to the other side, to see who could throw the farthest or hit one of the trees on the embankment opposite. We ran along into the orange glow of the rising sun. And then, after a while, we heard a rattle echoing from beyond. Thick black smoke poured over the horizon and then she came into view. It was a wonderful sight. With the funnel coughing out smoke, the wheels and connecting straps rotating furiously, the train roared around the bend, the bumpers and front plate of the engine gleaming. We jumped and cheered, and shouted down the bank. The driver leant out of the window of his cab and gave us a big wave.
We knew there was a cargo about to be unloaded, and that meant we might get something good to eat. To us boys, who’d been through famine, through hardships, who’d walked past dead bodies in the road stripped of flesh and turned into skeletons because of the Soviets, this was a blessing and a gift from God.
Nazi soldiers ushered us away from the entrance of the train station because we were making a nuisance of ourselves as always, and with those rifles pointing at us, we didn’t hang around. We continued our walk to school, but in my head I imagined all sorts of delicacies laden on a table. I hoped that, on those trains, would be food for us, endless supplies, with sumptuous aromas and flavours. To be able to sit at a feast and fill ourselves up like never before was a dream I’d had many times.
The Nazis employed local men to unload the trains, and those workers were paid in German Marks. It proved to be a great motivator. Some men got there in the early hours of the morning to secure such a position, others camped out overnight in often freezing conditions. Father never managed to get himself one of these jobs. Well, it was almost a fight to the death at times. There was more than one occasion when a pair of the men from the village would end up grappling with each other, while the Nazi soldiers looked on in amusement, as if they were watching a pair of dogs fighting for scraps.
Despite these petty wrangles, the fact the Marks came into circulation meant we could trade with each other for a wider range of goods. The trains were unloaded, and the goods transported over to the village hall. Father and some of our other neighbours went down there to see what was available, to see if they could exchange some of their own produce for tins of meat or fish. Many times Father came back with a bagful of assorted tins. Mother would pierce one of them with a knife and we’d have marinated herrings for dinner, with lovely fresh slices of buttered bread. I thought of Volodimir at times like these and I looked across at the empty space at the kitchen table. Sometimes I was sure I could feel him there, as if there was something in the air. It was strange. One evening, I sat in his place at the table and was surprised when the seat was warm. Other times, I
It was around the summer of that year, 1942, that the trains started running again, delivering goods, equipment and mail from the west, from across the border and beyond. These deliveries took place almost daily. Often, my friends and I would stop off near the train tracks on our way to school in the fuzzy haze of the summer mornings. We’d stand on top of an embankment, watching the sunrise, breathing in the warm air and drinking in that golden sun. We’d wait, with a misty silence swirling around our shoulders. We boys pierced through it by shouting, laughing and by fooling around in general. We collected big stones and threw them across to the other side, to see who could throw the farthest or hit one of the trees on the embankment opposite. We ran along into the orange glow of the rising sun. And then, after a while, we heard a rattle echoing from beyond. Thick black smoke poured over the horizon and then she came into view. It was a wonderful sight. With the funnel coughing out smoke, the wheels and connecting straps rotating furiously, the train roared around the bend, the bumpers and front plate of the engine gleaming. We jumped and cheered, and shouted down the bank. The driver leant out of the window of his cab and gave us a big wave.
We knew there was a cargo about to be unloaded, and that meant we might get something good to eat. To us boys, who’d been through famine, through hardships, who’d walked past dead bodies in the road stripped of flesh and turned into skeletons because of the Soviets, this was a blessing and a gift from God.
Nazi soldiers ushered us away from the entrance of the train station because we were making a nuisance of ourselves as always, and with those rifles pointing at us, we didn’t hang around. We continued our walk to school, but in my head I imagined all sorts of delicacies laden on a table. I hoped that, on those trains, would be food for us, endless supplies, with sumptuous aromas and flavours. To be able to sit at a feast and fill ourselves up like never before was a dream I’d had many times.
The Nazis employed local men to unload the trains, and those workers were paid in German Marks. It proved to be a great motivator. Some men got there in the early hours of the morning to secure such a position, others camped out overnight in often freezing conditions. Father never managed to get himself one of these jobs. Well, it was almost a fight to the death at times. There was more than one occasion when a pair of the men from the village would end up grappling with each other, while the Nazi soldiers looked on in amusement, as if they were watching a pair of dogs fighting for scraps.
Despite these petty wrangles, the fact the Marks came into circulation meant we could trade with each other for a wider range of goods. The trains were unloaded, and the goods transported over to the village hall. Father and some of our other neighbours went down there to see what was available, to see if they could exchange some of their own produce for tins of meat or fish. Many times Father came back with a bagful of assorted tins. Mother would pierce one of them with a knife and we’d have marinated herrings for dinner, with lovely fresh slices of buttered bread. I thought of Volodimir at times like these and I looked across at the empty space at the kitchen table. Sometimes I was sure I could feel him there, as if there was something in the air. It was strange. One evening, I sat in his place at the table and was surprised when the seat was warm. Other times, I
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