“When did this happen? Where?” Everyone wanted to know who this Ukrainian-American GI was. Everyone wanted to be in his care. The rumour-spreader could only shrug.
One dark, wet morning in April, Maurice arrived at the commandant’s office just before two officers, one in a splendid French uniform, the other in the brown uniform with red accents of a Soviet political officer. Heart hammering, Maurice followed them into the commandant’s office.
“Wait outside, Bury,” said Corporal Knight, the commandant’s secretary. “These officers speak English.” Maurice saw the smug look on the Russian’s face as he took out papers from a leather satchel. Then the door closed.
Maurice walked outside, but his knees would not hold him up past the porch. He sat on the steps, staring at a French-made staff car with U.N. markings on the fenders.
A group of Ukrainian men and some women gathered around the commandant’s office. They saw the car in front. One man wearing a battered hat shouted “We won’t go back to Russia!”
The crowd repeated him, and it turned into a chant. “We won’t go back! We won’t go back!”
A woman screamed “Don’t send us back to slavery.”
Sergeant Brown led a squadron of riflemen between the crowd and the steps of the office. At an order from Brown, they turned and faced the crowd but did not ready their weapons.
Maurice did not know how long the impromptu protest continued before the commandant’s door opened again. The Soviet and the French officers came out, and Sergeant Brown’s men formed a corridor to allow them to enter the staff car. The crowd’s chanting changed to jeers and insults to the fleeing officers, continuing until the car was out of sight.
Maurice was still standing on the steps outside the office when Corporal Knight called him back inside. Commandant Whitney-Coates stood at the door to his office, watching the protest outside with an expression on his face that Maurice could not decipher.
Corporal Knight handed Maurice a sheet of paper with a message typed on it. “Translate this into Ukrainian and read it out to the people in Barracks 10 through 15.”
Maurice had to hold the paper in both hands and brace his hands against his knees to quell their shaking enough to read the message. “All Ukrainian nationals without Allied documents will leave tomorrow at 0700 by train for L’viv and points farther east in the territory of the USSR, under terms of the Yalta Allied Conference, under authority of the United Nations Refugee Resettlement Authority. Signed, Charles Meistersheim, UNRRA and General-Commisar Pavel Orlov, USSR.”
Maurice could not breathe. Corporal Knight seemed to teeter in front of his eyes, first to one side, then to the other.
Knight put his hand on Maurice’s shoulder, and that steadied him. “Morrie?”
Maurice drew a shuddering breath. “You’re sending them back to slavery. Many of them will be shot.” He showed Knight the letter.
“Orders are orders.” He smiled wryly.
“What is so fucking funny?”
Knight gave him another slip of paper. “Orders. Here are the orders you’re to read to the D.P.s after the orders from the frog and the russkie.”
Maurice’s hands were shaking so much, he had to put the paper on the corporal’s desk to read it. Then he took a deep breath and forced himself to become calm.
“When do I have to read these orders?” he asked.
“Right now.”
Maurice followed Sergeant Brown and two helmeted guards to Barracks 10, one housing all Ukrainian refugees.
They passed a shed that served as the camp’s post office, and Ivan Babiak came out. He ran up to Maurice to show a letter. “Look—my uncle in Montreal is sponsoring us. We have all the approvals and immigration paperwork. We’re going to Canada!” He had to walk fast to keep up with Sergeant Brown and the MPs.
“When do you leave?” Maurice asked.
“We have to arrange train tickets to the Netherlands, and from there we’ll take a ship to Canada. My uncle is sending money through some kind of U.N. bank, I don’t know.”
Maurice stopped, falling behind the soldiers. Ivan stopped, too. His smile faded when he saw Maurice’s expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Ivan, get out of the camp as fast as you can. Go back to your barracks and listen to the announcement that I’ll make soon. And then don’t delay. Don’t bother with your wagon or any of that junk you brought with you. As soon as you can, get to France or Belgium or Holland and stay away from the Russians.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Russians have somehow pressured the Allies to send all the D.P.s back to the USSR. They will try to take you all back first thing tomorrow morning.”
Ivan’s face went white. “Where should we go?” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Another camp, preferably west of here. Show your paperwork to every official you find, but stay away from anyone from the USSR. I’ll do what I can to stall things here, but go fast.”
Ivan ran for his family’s tent. Maurice ran to catch up with Sergeant Brown and the two MPs.
A mild tumult filled the barracks and piled outside it as families and individuals did the hundred things that filled refugees’ days: cooking, washing, mending clothes, talking, wondering. Waiting for a letter or any word that would mean they could leave limbo.
“Attention!” Sergeant Brown said. The refugees quieted. They looked confused and worried.
Maurice’s mouth was dry. He coughed before he began translating the letter into Ukrainian. Moans rose from the refugees. One woman screamed and men began shouting. “Tomorrow morning! We’re not leaving. We are not Russians.”
Maurice held one hand up for quiet, and then shouted out the second order from Commandant Whitney-Coates. The protests changed to cheers.
Maurice and the American soldiers walked out of the barracks, leaving a tumult behind them. One of the G.I.s remained outside the door as Brown, Maurice and the second guard went from building to building. Every time, they got the same reaction.
Maurice did not need to continue reading the orders after the third barracks. The word spread throughout the camp like a virus.
After supper, Maurice went to the camp office and typed a letter, posting it for another camp, in Kufstein, Austria—closer to Russia but also closer to Austrian command in Vienna.
The next morning, Maurice sat with Corporal Knight in the American mess for breakfast, as usual. No one talked about the Soviets or the repatriation orders. When he came out of the main mess hall, he found the refugees milling around the camp as usual, teaching children, fixing the buildings, acting as if there had been no announcement about forced repatriation.
A train chuffed to a halt at the platform two hours late. A company of NKVD soldiers got off, rifles ready. Sergeant Brown led a company of American GIs to the platform, helmets on their heads and rifles slung over their shoulders. They spread across the platform, blocking the NKVD men. The Americans stood with their rifles ready, watching them.
General-Commisar Pavel Orlov climbed down from the train and walked between the NKVD soldiers. Commandant Whitney-Coates stepped from between the GIs.
“Where are the internees?” asked Orlov. He was a thin, bald man with three scars across his left cheek.
“They are not internees. They are displaced persons,” Commandant Whitney-Coates said.
Orlov turned toward the camp. A crowd of men and women had gathered just inside the fence. They faced the Soviet soldiers, united in defiance.
“Ukrainians!” Orlov shouted. “Brothers and sisters. We are here to liberate you and return you to your homeland, to the freedom of a socialist society. We need you to help rebuild the country after this great patriotic struggle for freedom and democracy.”
Maurice could have written the crowd’s response to that statement.