35
The train jerked.
I awoke, stiff. It was light and we were on the move again. My first thoughts were of food – food, food, always of food. I was so hungry. If I wasn’t thinking about food, my fellow travellers spoke of nothing else.
I slid my hand into my bag for the sausage, ripped off a tiny piece, and slipped it into my mouth. Chewing, I savoured each delicious smidgeon, relishing the saliva it created around my mouth and craved more. How far is Persia, I wondered? Why did I part with my atlas? It was all for nothing now. I rested my head against the wagon wall and watched the view through the iron gratings.
We passed vast piles of snow-white cotton picked and delivered to the collection point, but with no protection against the elements the cotton fibres had rotted. Close by stood several enormous trucks, their tyres missing, rusting away to the complete indifference by the Kazaks. What wastefulness, what apathy, I thought, when we have so little, and they can afford to allow things to decay.
This last journey was as awful as all the rest, but what made it more bearable was the knowledge that perhaps I was getting closer to freedom; out of the Soviet Union.
One by one, the stations rolled by: Bishkek – Taraz – Tashkent. Tashkent was another longer stop, and the platform heaved with soldiers wearing battledress, surrounded by their families. Some climbed aboard my wagon and I watched with envy how excited and happy they were to leave – but they had each other.
Was my entire life destined to be like this; coming and going, one blurry station after another, cold, hungry, covered in lice and a worsening ulcerated leg – no present, no future, just heart-breaking memories following me around?
We were off again, collecting troops and rescuing refugees – Samarkand – Bukhara – Turkmenabad – Ashgabat.
The transport was slowing again. Awake now, I gazed through the grilles as we passed through the insignificant town of Dzhanga, and stopped in a field beyond it.
All at once Polish soldiers appeared and ran along the length of the train, sliding open doors. ‘All out! Everybody out! Ships are waiting for you at the port.’
What started as a buzz of excitement soon grew into full-blown exhilaration. The soldiers began helping those too sick or unable to remove their bags – women, little children and older adults.
Reaching for my pail and bag, I jumped from the wagon and looked around but could see neither ships nor water. The sandy field in which I stood was empty, grassed, with clumps of bushes growing here and there.
A soldier who saw me looking bemused drew up and explained, ‘Sorry there’s no transport to take you to the holding point, but we have to clear this field. We are expecting another train within the hour; and many more after that. Please collect your things and hurry.’
‘So where is this port?’ I asked.
He pointed toward a knoll.
I trudged to the top of the hillock and there, in the far distance, lay the gleaming water of an enormous bay with a town stretching either side along the shore.
‘On the other side lies Persia. Freedom,’ said a woman’s voice.
I spun around; it was Irena, the nurse who left with us from Permilovo, and helped me comfort Karol and my mother. ‘Irena! My God, how are you? I’ve been so lonely and frightened.’
She wrapped me in her arms, ‘Don’t be; we shall sail together. Isn’t it a wonderful sight?’
‘But water terrifies me.’
‘You’re not being asked to swim across. You’ll be fine.’
A group of Polish soldiers approached on the track from the port. They circulated amongst us, and people formed into groups to listen to what they had to say. The young NCO in our group explained the situation. ‘Once again, apologies for the transport, but it’s not too far to walk to the holding point. Take just what you can carry. There won’t be enough room to take more on the boat. Sorry,’ he held up a defensive hand, ‘General Anders instructions.’
It amazed everyone who had clung to their cases and bundles. Compared with life, they were worthless, but their contents were precious to them. They had lugged them for thousands of kilometres, protected them from theft and now had to abandon them in a field.
‘They will search you on embarkation. You may not take roubles out of the country. The NKVD will do the searching, will arrest anyone who tries to smuggle out money, and will turn his or her family back and stop them from leaving. Is that understood? They can even prevent entire transports from leaving port.
‘The NKVD will come around with bags.’ He left before anyone protested.
Everyone fell on bags and bundles, turning out suitcases, tearing open wrappings. It amazed me some people still had their bedding and kitchen utensils, clothes, even. Their less dishevelled appearances told me they had been lucky enough not to have spent much time in Stalin’s paradise – unlike me.
In a frenzy of terror in case the NKVD denied me freedom, I pulled my mother’s pillow from my bag. Burying my face in its softness, I inhaled Mama’s hair, sweaty as it might have been. I had vowed never to part with it, but the soldier left me no choice. Imagining my mother’s lips against it, I pressed my own into the soiled linen before propping it up against a clump of grass.
Irena said, ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean your mother’s pillow; it doesn’t take up much space. Fetch it, kohanie – it’s all you have left. I’m sure he was referring to all those who still have sacks and suitcases full of excessive baggage.’
I was unsure. ‘But what if they stop me from leaving?’
‘So, take it out then. Just say, ‘sorry,’ and leave it behind.’
Soviet functionaries came around with canvass bags, and people threw in whatever they had before they joined the others and followed a lead towards the holding area. Abandoned luggage littered the field beside the railway line for as far as I could see. Containers of every sort, suitcases almost full, lay scattered. Some had even set fire to theirs to stop anyone profiting from their loss.
‘Oh, God, now it’s raining.’ I set down my bag and pail, pulled my coat over my head, and caught up with Irena. Onwards we trudged – sick mothers, clutching their even sicklier children, the elderly with sticks.
We reached the makeshift civilian transit camp. It was about half a kilometre from the port where two ships were already heading for Persia. Black clouds hung over the sea, and white caps crowned the waves. There must have been a thousand refugees here already, all waiting in nervous anticipation.
I pulled my shearling further over my forehead and sat down on the ground beside Irena, the wet suede of my coat weighing me down.
There was a bit of a rebellion brewing nearby. The newcomers were complaining of being tricked into leaving their precious possessions behind by Polish soldiers – of all people! Whatever happened to honesty – robbing us when we already had so little?
A man in the crowd shouted back, ‘Rubbish, nobody’s robbed you of anything! The reason they have asked you to take just what you can carry is that General Anders wants to evacuate as many civilians as possible. He’s worried Stalin will put a stop to any more ships leaving. Surely human life’s worth more than your piles of worthless rubbish!’ He shook his head, wafting his hand as if they were all stupid.
‘How come you’re such a know-all?’ someone shouted back.
‘Oh, I have it on good authority. My son’s an officer in the army. Stalin has no intention of liberating civilians, so think yourselves lucky you’re on the next ship out. They might even cancel that, or recall it when you’re out at sea.’