“Children,” says my mother to my sister and me, “close your eyes and go to sleep!” From the adjoining room where our parents are we can hear whispers and sudden commotions. In the morning, when I get up, Father is already gone. Walking to school, I look around in every direction — maybe I can still catch a glimpse of him? There was so much I wanted to tell him about — about myself, about school, about the cannon. And that I already know the Russian alphabet. And that I had seen a deportation. But I do not see my father, not even in the most distant reaches of Lochiszynska Street, which is so long that it probably leads all the way to the end of the earth. It is autumn. A chill wind is blowing. My eyes sting.
• • •
THE NEXT NIGHT. A pounding at the windows, at the door, so insistent, intrusive, so violent, that it seems at any moment the ceiling will cave in. Several of them burst in, Red Army men and civilians, they barge in nervously and with such lightning speed, as if enraged wolves were chasing them. Rifles immediately leveled at us. A great fear: What if they fire? And what if they kill? It’s a very unpleasant sensation, seeing a dead human being. Also, seeing a dead horse. It makes one shudder.
Those holding the rifles stand like statues, without so much as budging, whereas the rest of them are chucking everything to the floor. From the wardrobes, from the chest of drawers, from the beds. Dresses, caps, our toys. Straw mattresses, shoes, Father’s clothes. And to Mother: Muz kuda? (Where’s your husband?) And Mother, pale as a sheet, spreads her trembling arms and says that she doesn’t know. But they know that Father has been here, and so again: Muz kuda? And Mother — well, nothing, she doesn’t know, doesn’t know, and that’s that. Why, you, says one of them, and makes a gesture as though to strike her, and she draws back her head to avoid the blow. The others are still searching and searching. Under the beds, under the cupboard, under the armchair. What are they searching for? They say that it’s weapons. But what kind of weapons could we have? My toy gun, which I used to fight Indians with? Well, yes, when the gun was still good, we could always drive the Indians from our courtyard with it, but now my revolver has a broken spring, and it’s good for nothing.
They want to take Mother away. Why, as punishment? They threaten her with their fists and curse terribly. Idi! a soldier shouts at her, and tries to push her outside into the dark night with the butt of his rifle. But just then my younger sister suddenly throws herself on him and begins pummeling, biting, and kicking him, throws herself at him in a sort of delirium, in fury, in madness. There is so much unexpected, startling determination in this, such a rapacious unyieldingness, doggedness, and finality, that one of the Red Army men, probably the eldest, probably the commander, hesitates for a moment, then puts on his cap, fastens the holster of his pistol, and says to his people, “Pashli!” (“Let’s go!”)
• • •
IN SCHOOL, during breaks, or when we are returning home in a group, the talk is of deportations. There is now no subject more interesting. Our town is full of green; gardens stretch around the houses; every open space is thick with tall grasses, weeds, bushes, and trees; therefore it is easy to hide, to see everything and yet to be invisible oneself. In the higher grades there are those who have managed to sneak away from home, conceal themselves in the underbrush, and observe an entire deportation from start to finish. We already have veritable experts on deportations. They discourse on the subject eagerly and with connoisseurship.
The deportations take place at night. The method here is surprise. The person is asleep, and suddenly shouts wake him, he sees above him the fierce faces of soldiers and of the NKVD; they pull him out of bed, shove him with rifle butts, and command him to leave the house. They order that weapons be handed over, which of course no one possesses anyway. The whole time they spew vile obscenities. The worst is when they call someone a bourgeois. “Bourgeois” is a terrible term of abuse. They turn the whole house upside down, and they take the greatest delight in this. During the time that they are conducting the house search and creating this whole indescribable mess, the wagon arrives. It is a peasant wagon pulled by a paltry little horse, for the inhabitants of the Polesie region are poor and have bad horses. When the commander sees that the wagon is there, he shouts to the ones who will be deported: You have fifteen minutes to pack and get on the wagon. If the commander has a kind heart, he gives them a half hour. Then one simply has to pounce on anything and everything and stuff it into the suitcases, whatever one can manage. Choosing anything, or deliberating about something, is out of the question. Quickly, at once, now, hurry up, hurry up! Then at a run to the wagon — literally at a run. On the wagon sits a peasant, but the peasant won’t help; he is not allowed to; he is not even allowed to turn around to see who is getting into the wagon. The house is left empty, for they take the entire family — grandparents, children, everyone. They turn off the lights.
Now the wagon rolls along in the darkness, along deserted streets, in the direction of the train station. The wagon shakes and sways, for the majority of our streets do not have asphalt, not even cobblestones. The wheels fall into deep holes or sink into mud. But everyone here is used to such inconveniences — the driver from Polesie and his horse and even these unfortunates, who are now swaying atop their bundles, dejected and terrified.
The boys who have managed to observe a deportation say that they have followed after these wagons on foot all the way to the railroad tracks. The freight cars stand there, a long transport. Every night there would be a dozen or so wagons, or several score or more. The wagons would come to a stop on the square in front of the train station. To get to the freight cars, one had to go on foot. It is difficult to board a car like that, because it is high. Those from the escort drove the deportees on, swung their rifles around, shouted, cursed. When they filled one car, they moved on to the next one. What did it mean — to fill a car? It meant to stuff these people into it using knees and rifle butts so that there would be no room left even for a pin.
ONE NEVER KNEW what night they would come, or for whom. The boys who knew a lot about the deportations attempted to discern some rules in this matter, some hierarchies, to discover the key. Alas, in vain. Because, for example, they would begin deporting from Bednarska Street, and then, suddenly, they would stop. They would go after the inhabitants of Kijowska Street, but only on the even side. All of a sudden someone from Nadbrzeżna would vanish, but that same night they would have taken people from the other side of town — from Browarna. Since the time of our house search, Mother does not let us take our clothes off at night. We can take off our shoes, but we have to have them beside us all the time. The coats lie on chairs, so they can be put on in the wink of an eye. In principle we are not permitted to sleep. My sister and I lie side by side, and we poke each other, shake each other, or pull each other by the hair. “Hey, you, don’t sleep!” “You, too, don’t sleep!” But, of course, in the midst of this struggling and shoving we both fall asleep. But Mother really does not sleep. She sits at the table and listens the whole time. The silence on our street rings in our ears. If someone’s footsteps echo in this silence, Mother grows pale. A man at this hour is an enemy. In class we read in Stalin about enemies. An enemy is a terrifying figure. Who else would come around at this hour? Good people are afraid; they are sitting hidden in their homes.