No one spoke. The cart’s squeaky wheel tolling the minutes like a death knell, the odd snort from the horse, and the occasional sob were the only indications this nightmare was a reality.
At the corner where the three lanes met stood a massive wooden cross, surrounded by silver birches which were almost invisible beneath their cloak of snow. I always believed it was there to protect us, but it wasn’t defending anyone – neither Bookiet nor us. What was the point of it? So furious did I feel, and so full of hatred, that if I had an axe, I would have hacked it down. Better still, if it landed on the Soviets and smashed them into hell.
Ploughed land, that now lay dead to the world beneath its shroud of snow, accompanied us to both sides of the lane. My father’s face was expressionless, his cold tobacco pipe clenched between his teeth.
‘Tatta, do you really think we won’t ever be coming home? I mean, something must have made you say it. You can tell me; I’m grown up now.’
He removed his pipe, put his arm across my shoulder and gave me a reassuring hug. ‘Of course, we’ll be coming home. Before you know it, I’ll be sowing those fields with grain. You’ll be grazing the cows down by the stream and making more of your wonky baskets.’
‘Will I? Will I, really?’
‘The Soviets are taking us to safety because the Nazis have invaded western Poland. There’s a chance they might move east. Stop worrying. You’re such a little worrier; it’s not right for a child of your age.’ He gave my shoulder another hug as if all this was normal.
‘Yes, but what about my chicken’s eggs, they were already hatching? What will happen to them?’ When I looked into his face he had no answer, but his eyes were glistening. ‘If the Soviets planned to return us, why did they have to shoot Bookiet? He could have come with us. Why the guns? Why are they so aggressive? None of it makes sense.’
‘Because they know that stubborn old farmers like your mother and I would refuse to leave our homes and our animals. We’ll be back soon enough, and all this will seem like a distant dream.’
My parents weren’t stubborn farmers though. We may not have been as well to do and elegant as the folk who lived in Zhabinka with their fancy clothes, but my father never rested. His hands were calloused, veiny and toil-worn, his fingernails permanently ingrained with muck from his fields. He did whatever needed doing, and he made sure we never went without.
I yearned to cling to normality, yet even as the mass of the Little Forest loomed ahead, it seemed like an alien place – a place no longer for me. From spring to autumn for as long as I could remember, Wanda, Jusio and I picked berries and mushrooms there, as did all the children unless the gipsies arrived. Sometimes we would come across their hooped vardos encircled in a clearing, while their horses grazed nearby, their dogs yelped, and Bookiet eyeballed them and barked, itching for a fight. Poor thing; he wouldn’t be doing that again – or chasing rabbits.
We would run home to spread the news and everyone took in their washing because there was a prejudice against the Polska Roma that they were thieves and the men were rogues. Sometimes the first sign they had arrived was smoke curling from their campfire or the distant sound of their fiddles carrying on the evening breeze while they entertained themselves around the camp fire. The next day the women, in long skirts, with fringed shawls tied about their waists, appeared bare foot and uninvited in our kitchen. They peddled gold and silver work, then stole our eggs while their menfolk traded horses. Mama could never afford to buy jewellery, but instead bought red ribbons for my hair, then fretted lest they cast evil spells over our family.
Last year, Jusio slipped his hand into mine. I still remember that tingle – that divine sensation it sent up my arm and flooded my brain – it was a sense of such giddy excitement. Where was he now, I wondered? Had the Soviets already marched him and his family to Zhabinka Station too? I hoped that he would wait for me on the platform so I could tell him what they had done to Bookiet. I craved a hug and fresh reassurance that everything would turn out fine, because what was happening here and what the grown-ups were telling me didn’t sound hopeful.
By the time we reached the outskirts of town, snow clouds had besieged the first rays of dawn and deepened my desolation. The unknown day broke sullen and overcast, and the wind rose again, whipping the hems of our coats like bed sheets on a washing line.
The railway lines through Zhabinka connected Warsaw, Brest and Moscow, and the buzz on market days hung over the tiny town as the dawn chorus hung over the Little Forest; it was a lively place.
We tramped along Kirov Street, the magnificent station building already in sight. Today, however, there was no easy banter. I could see no men of commerce delivering bolts of cloth to their tailors, no rough-and-ready farmers herding livestock to market, joking with their counterparts as was the style of the common man. Instead, a grim procession of carts, and sledges choked off the station’s approaches, the cart horses restive, sensing panic.
Apart from a few early risers, and those whose slumber the commotion disturbed, it felt as if the towns people had kept themselves to their homes. Perhaps they feared that by association, we hapless country folk would taint them with our fate. I saw terror flash through a man’s face before he disappeared behind the door to his dwelling. Other residents peered from behind half-drawn curtains, perplexed by the constant line of tumbrels that crept past their abodes. Perhaps they were questioning when their turn to sit atop such a cart might come.
I recognised two customers out and about who often purchased Mama’s eggs and cream, and Lodzia’s spun linen thread. They didn’t acknowledge any of us, preferring to deny any affiliation like Peter thrice denied Christ. It made me wonder what chance we had if our people had already condemned us for a crime we hadn’t committed? I felt like a leper in my own country.
The Scruffy One spotted a vacant space beneath a banner of Stalin and jerked the reins so hard that his semi-feral Konik reared and almost toppled the cart with Mother, Lodzia and Ella still on it.
My brothers and I sent up a mighty roar, and Father rushed forwards to help the idiot control his horse. What a sight greeted us!
Wet, grey flakes were now falling out of nothing, and a dreadful air of oppression hung over the station. The wailing of human anguish was everywhere. Fear stunk. The NKVD was in control, their blue caps visible amongst the shabby, dun-coloured Red Army uniforms, whose soldiers were barking orders to defenceless citizens. ‘Out, collect your belongings. Get in the queue!’
Babies were crying. Frightened mothers herded their children, and dragged the smaller ones upright by the arm when they stumbled, in case they fell beneath the feet of those following. Grandparents, confused and fragile, shuffled behind, carrying their few possessions.
Friends and relatives were arriving, but soldiers allowed only those singled out for deportations near the station. They thrust food parcels into the hands of loved ones, hugged them and cried, refusing to let them go as they bid them farewell. All the while, soldiers shooed them away, lest they stepped beyond the demarcation lines. I cast about for Jusio and Wanda, but there was no sign of them or their family.
I felt my heart quicken. I tried to blot out the wailing and helped my mother and Lodzia climb down from the cart, while Father and my brothers removed our luggage. There were people, baskets, bags and bundles everywhere.
‘What’s this?’ Karol hoisted the dead chicken out by its feet.
The Scruffy One snatched it from his grasp. ‘That’s mine.’
I snatched it back. ‘No, it’s not. It’s ours. I saw him kill it, Tatta.’