Mama leaned towards me and sniffed, then covered her mouth with one hand. “Maria told me where you were going. I’m almost afraid to ask if you were able to identify any bodies.”
“We found Josip.”
She gasped and hugged me and we both wept. She took a deep shuddering breath, then said, “You didn’t find Borys?”
“No, thank God. We can only hope that he’s still alive.”
“I’ll go to Iryna right away,” said Mama, untying her apron and handing it to me. She looked around at the house with panic in her eyes.
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay here with Maria,” I said. “We’ll continue to clean.”
Chapter Seven
Refuge
It is a terrible thing, to break the earth still fresh from death and to bury a son beside his father. I don’t know how Auntie Iryna gathered the strength to greet all the people who came out for the evening Panikheda at the church. Polina Semko had made the trek from her blue-roofed house in the country.
After the simple wooden casket was carried outside the next morning and we stood at Josip’s open grave, I scanned the faces of people crowded round. Through a haze of tears, I thought I saw Borys, but when I blinked, he was gone.
Auntie Iryna received a steady stream of visitors to her house after the funeral. Mama, Maria and I stayed to lend our support, but also to make sure Auntie didn’t wear herself out. Had she even slept since Josip’s body was found? And her mind must be filled with worry about Borys.
Auntie Polina lingered for an hour after the last person left, sitting with Auntie Iryna and reminiscing about happier times. “When we were children, we had a cow race,” she said. “Do you remember that?”
Auntie Iryna tried to smile. “How could I forget?”
Auntie Polina looked from me to Maria and said, “I got up on the back of our black cow, and your aunt rode our neighbours’ dappled cow.”
“I can’t imagine cows running,” said Maria.
“They didn’t,” said Auntie Polina, grinning.
Auntie Iryna’s smile became wider. “We sat on those stupid cows for about fifteen minutes.”
“Do you remember the bonfire?” asked Auntie Polina.
Auntie Iryna leaned back into her chair with her eyes closed. “That’s when I met Roman. I’ll never forget the bonfire.”
It was good to see Auntie Iryna’s sadness lifted for a short while by the happy memories. When Auntie Polina got up to leave, I followed her out the door. “Let me know if I can help in any way,” she said, giving me a hug.
Mama made Auntie Iryna a cup of linden tea, and we were about to leave when a shadow filled the door.
It was Commandant Hermann.
Auntie Iryna stumbled to her feet to greet him.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said, but his face didn’t look as if he meant it, and his eyes didn’t focus on my aunt’s face. Instead, his gaze assessed her house. “Your blacksmith shop is now vacant; this house is too big for one person. You cannot stay here,” he said. “A German family will have this house.”
Auntie’s lower lip trembled. “But where will I go?”
“Your family can take you in,” he said, glancing from Mama to me and Maria.
“I have just buried my husband, and now my son, and you are forcing me to leave my house?”
“You were scheduled for removal this morning,” said the Commandant. “It was in sympathy for your loss that we waited for the funeral to be over. Now, good day. Pack up your clothing and some food, but everything else is to remain in the house.”
With that, he was gone.
“That man is vile,” I said. “And of all days to throw you out.”
“What will become of me now?” said Auntie Iryna, collapsing back into her chair. She cradled her head on the table and wept.
“We’re happy to have you,” said Mama. But what she didn’t say was that it would be difficult to feed all of us, especially come winter. The loss of Auntie’s house also meant losing her vegetable garden and patch of wheat, yet we would be gaining a mouth to feed. But one advantage of being poor is that it doesn’t take long to pack. We bundled Auntie’s meagre selection of clothing around jars of preserves.
“What the Commandant doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” said Mama, hastily opening and closing drawers and removing everything she could find. She packed up Auntie’s linens and cutlery and plates. “We’ll store these extra things in Krasa’s loft, beside the items from Auntie Stefa. Now, what about your cow and chickens?”
“I assumed Lysa and the chickens would come with me.” Auntie Iryna paused from her packing. “He didn’t specifically say to leave the cow and chickens.”
“The cow and chickens are not in the house,” I added. “He told you to leave everything in the house.”
“But if the Commandant finds two cows in our shed, then what?” asked Maria. “He’ll think we’ve stolen one of them.”
This conversation was making me very angry. “All I know is that right now Lysa needs to go to the pasture,” I said. “And so does Krasa. You can tell me what you decide about the cow when I get back.”
“You’re right, Krystia,” said Auntie Iryna. “Take the cows to the pasture.”
Maria pulled our milk cart piled with Auntie’s meagre belongings, and I walked close behind her, leading Lysa. Mama and Auntie Iryna walked a few steps in front of us, each cradling a canvas bag with a trembling chicken inside.
As we passed our blacksmith shop, I remembered what Uncle Roman had been working on before he was killed. “Maria,” I said, “hold Lysa’s rope. There’s something I need to get.” I took a towel from the cart and filled it with the small hacksaws.
Once we got to our house, I untethered Krasa and made the sad journey to our pasture with both cows. The incoming traffic was so heavy it was hard to keep the cows out of the way. Mostly the traffic was wide military trucks, but there were also ragged refugees pushing wheelbarrows loaded with their belongings — and others coming with nothing.
I watched an exhausted woman and a girl my age as they approached. The mother leaned heavily on a wooden staff and her shoes were held together with rags. On the girl’s back was a small knapsack. When we were nearly face to face, I greeted them both with a smile. “Good day,” I said in German.
The woman surprised me by answering in Ukrainian, “Good day.” Then she asked, “Could you spare some milk for my daughter?”
“You need it more than I do, Mutter,” said the girl, wrapping her arm around her mother’s waist.
Who were these people? The other soldiers and the civilians who had recently come to Viteretz didn’t understand Ukrainian at all.
“I can spare some milk for both of you,” I said. “Follow me.”
I led the cows down a quiet laneway. The mother sat on a pile of rubble, stretching her feet out in front of her. The daughter knelt on the ground beside her.
Krasa nudged the daughter’s cheek. The girl patted Krasa’s nose. “We had a beautiful spotted cow like yours back home,” the girl said.
“Where was home?”
“Bukovyna,” said the girl.
“So you’re Ukrainian?”
“We’re German,” said the mother.
“Germans, but from the south?” I asked. It didn’t make sense.
“Most people in Bukovyna are Slavs,” said the mother. “Like you, Ukrainian. Or Romanian. But there were German communities in Bukovyna too.”
“The Soviets put my father in a slave-labour camp in Siberia,” said the girl. “Mama and I were rescued by the Germans. This whole area is now part of the Reich, so there will be a lot more of us Volksdeutche settling here.”