Whatever he had told himself, all through this treacherous journey, it could not prepare him for what was to come.
Chapter 11
A grotesque figure, rags loosely hanging from the body like a spent banshee in the Siberian mists, hunched before him in the half-light as the door partly opened. Peter’s skin pricked with tension, pain in the pit of his stomach. This figure was unrecognisable. It couldn’t be his mother. He put his arm out to the door to steady himself. The silent rag figure crept back, uncertain of the visitor. “O God,” he cried inwardly, despairing, “I’m too late!” But he had to know. Somehow, he found his voice. “Good people, please tell me if Yosep and Palasha live here,” he softly enquired.
The grotesque shape opened the door slightly further. A scarfed head leant forward, eyes peering into the twilight. A sickening moment passed. Then, “Peta … Peta … is that you?” The shape seemed to collapse as she repeated, “Oi Boje mye, oi Boje mye.” He fell to his knees, now at her height. He couldn’t yet comprehend his mother’s condition. He only knew he had arrived just in time. The regime’s brutality and Siberia’s winters would be reaping several more souls before long.
His father, lying death-like in a crude straw bed in one corner of the hovel, raised his eyes in recognition. Whispers of light from one small candle picked up a spark in the proud elderly eyes. He tried to talk, but the pneumonic condition was too painful. Too ill, unable to work, he had lost his rations of food. The guards profited by this. They bartered their bounty of suffering for black market tobacco and vodka, their stomachs filled from the misery of others. His mother had tried to do a man’s job, to keep them alive. It was an impossible task. Her back told the story. Only her previous agility and inner strength saved her from leaving her frail husband to find peace at last with her Maker.
Halka, his little sister, now so tall, so skeletal, clung to his army coat as if afraid he would vaporise in the dim light. Mother, son, daughter huddled protectively at Yosep’s corpse-like frame and prayed silently, tears blending with tears; it was as if an invisible village priest and his spirit passed his blessing over them. They each knew their fate. They would have little time together.
A broth made up of rancid pickled cabbage and forest vegetation that had long-since dried and become mouldy, lifted their spirits. Peter cut wafer thin slithers of the salted pork, just enough to give them sustenance for the night. They relished each tiny morsel. “Charstvo Nabesno.” In whispered gratitude they gave thanks as they had done each time after Easter fasting and the midnight vigil of the death of Christ. Christmas was not far off in this scattered, forgotten part of Stalin’s empire. Perhaps Saint Nikolas may yet indulge them, make his presence there, sustain them longer.
With military precision, Peter cut and re-wrapped the salted pork into tiny portions. He knew if his parents had any chance to survive this winter they would have to discipline themselves and their starvation even further. They had already survived whilst many others had lost their daily struggle in this godless wilderness. Their resourcefulness and hope had kept them alive. Now, they hid the tiny parcels in secret places in the hut, in hollowed-out half logs of the walls and crude table legs. The guards were more interested in pilfering items they could barter easily, for their black market sport. There was little left in this hovel to take, and the death mask of disease kept them at bay these past weeks.
Despite himself, Peter slept soundly on the makeshift straw bed at his father’s side. The haunting sounds of forest wolves became enmeshed in a dream that passed into his subconscious. The dream that awoke with him was gaiety and goodwill in their family village of Kylapchin as Saint Nikolas celebrated Christ’s birth. Sombre dawn light brought a different reality. It had snowed heavily through the night, and the hut was now immersed in new snow up to the window.
Very soon, life would stand still in this region. They had already heard that the last transportation of prisoners was arriving in a day or two. Then the snowstorms, the icy conditions and the incomprehensible temperatures would stop the Trans-Siberian Railway going either east or west. “O God … there is so little time with them,” he realised, as he watched his ailing parents. He knew he and Mikhaelo had to return on that last delivery train before the elements would cut them off. They stood no chance if discovered in the labour camp. Their mission would fail. His parents, and Mikhailo’s, would be executed for their complicity.
It was a strange no-man’s land of time, of punishment. Halka, the only one able to move freely in and out of the camp on pretext of caring for her ill parents, conveyed vital messages. She also readied herself. Her parents willed her to leave them to their fate. She wanted to live. There was little more she could do for her pitiful parents. They did not want to watch their youngest child suffer during their last struggles with life. She became a vital conduit between the two friends as she listened for accurate information of the coming of the train.
* * *
“Petro!” Halka’s hushed whisper suppressed urgency after she rushed back early one day, pulling him to one side. “It’s already here! The train! The new prisoners are being taken this very minute to the holding yard!” Peter felt his heart lurch in sharp pain as if it had stopped. He knew what this meant. He could not look immediately at his grieving parents. He turned away, ostensibly to prepare himself. They knew they would not see another winter, would not see their Ukraine, or their family. He knew his eyes would not meet their loving ones again.
Yosep and Palasha blessed their son and daughter in a ritual of prayer long remembered from their days of religious freedom in their beloved Ukraine. Peter could not speak. His throat so tight, he felt he would choke with the pain. But he knew he had to turn his back; hope that what little pittance he had brought them might sustain them a little longer. He could not bring himself to look one last time at that door, at the hunched diminutive figure that had given him life and hope and joy for so many years.
Gloomy daylight still remained as they made their way to the train station, weaving in and out of the muddy snow path wherever they could to avoid detection. To no avail. A handful of orphans, excited at the prospect of leaving this death hole, tagged behind them. Peter pleaded with them not to follow, but it was too late. He had warned Halka to keep going, no matter what happened. She had her forged papers with her, and she must be on that train.
With the tension mounting, he reacted instinctively to an unlikely shadow. “Halka! Break now! Hide! Break from us!” he urged her. “From now on we are strangers, if you’re questioned. Hurry!” He grabbed her arm, quickly pushed her towards a snow-mound. Just in time, she and the other children scattered, out of view.
From nowhere, it seemed, burly guards with their ancient but deadly rifles pointed, gave the men orders to stop and marched them to a back shed of the station, hidden from public view. There, stripped of boots, coats and warm clothing, they were strapped to well-worn chairs. These guards knew what they were doing; they were practised at this. Two Stalinist secret police, almost casual in their confident manner, strolled in, ready for their interrogation. They, also, were seasoned at this. No guns, no visible signs of tormentors. Peter’s mind raced. He and Mikhaelo had talked about such an eventuality. But their journey thus far, so long and tortuous, had been relatively uneventful. It didn’t seem possible that they would lose their lives at this juncture.
His thoughts flashed, at counterpoint with his logic as he tried to anticipate the interrogation. “Mikhaelo won’t withstand this … I must divert their attention,” he bargained with his mind. He was the instigator, the leader, the originator of their plan. He would try to save his friend, whatever the consequences. But his pounding heart, his logic, told him otherwise. It looked to him, in his military calculation, and with a veterinarian’s smell of looming death, that that would be nigh