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 favourite 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, savouring each spoonful. This was 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 blood red, 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?
Chapter Five
Photograph
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 neighbours, 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 hand-cart into a shady area beside her house. “There are more deliveries to be made.”