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Lydia Sokolik: My Life at War. Part 3

Evacuation, November 1941 — August 1942.

When we arrived to the village called Murashi, many evacuee families went to the kolkhoz. We could not go because of our disabled mother, so we stayed in the village. Our mother was put into a war hospital, where she spent around two months. At first we did not have any place to live, so we slept in the school’s building, on the floor. Local authorities were very kind to us. But the villagers were extremely hostile. The majority of them were Old Orthodox. I could not say whether they were the suppressed families, or not. My father later explained to me that they must have been people who believed they were treated unjustly. At any rate, they were very well-off. The roofs of all houses were covered with iron, all floors were dyed, which in those times was very expensive to afford. Every house had a hand washer outside. The local people told us later that these were indeed the suppressed families.

From school we were relocated into one such house. But we did not spend much time there. We were not allowed to use water from the home well, so we had to walk half a kilometre to the railway, to collect it. We actually had to cross the railway, which with all climbing up and coming down was a tough journey. But when the winter began, we were melting snow and boiling it to use as drinking water.

Another incident contributed to us leaving that house swiftly. One morning my father went to work. As soon as he went outside, I heard him screaming. I ran out, and saw him with the housekeeper, standing next to a hung cat. The cat was white, with reddish spots. My father was inquiring as to why the housekeeper would be so cruel to the animal. She said: ‘Don’t worry. The cat knows what she did. She stole meat, she was guilty, so she was punished’. The very next day we moved out.

My father found a job as a carpenter at the railways, and we moved in to a small antechamber of a local bath. Despite having no heating, it had electricity. There we lived until we left the Murashi village in August 1942.

One day my father came home and told me and my mum that next day would be the first when conscription will arrive to our town. Next morning we went out. Many women were following their men with cries and prayers, shouting: ‘Our beloved sons, do not fight against the Germans! Shoot the commissars in their backs! Surrender yourself!’ This was in late November — early December 1941. In spring 1942 devastated letters began to arrive, as well as the disabled, armless, legless soldiers.

Then one morning, when we were still sleeping, a woman from the nearby house knocked on our window. My father and I went out to see what she wanted. She stood on the lowest step of the stairs. Immediately, when she saw us, she fell down to her knees and began to beg us to forgive her. Her son had just returned from the front without legs and told her horrendous stories. She nearly forced me to go to get water from the well in her house yard.

In 1942, we worked at the construction site of the Kirov-Kotlas Railway Road. It was a part of the North-Pechora Road, but was later adjoined to the Northern Road. I only had light shoes to wear, and the winter was very severe. The underage were not allowed to work at the railroad, but the brigadiers would let us help them, ‘illegally’. One day we were told a very high official was coming to visit our road, and all underage people (including myself) were hidden away. Later it turned out that this man was the Minister of Railways during the war. I did not work there for long, and in March I became the head of the Community office, where I was responsible for blankets and other household supplies.

Meanwhile, my brother looked after a bread stall, which was owned by two Jewish sisters. He did not tell us, so when my father found out about it, he first was against it because Vitaliy was only young. One of the sisters later came to visit my father to persuade him to allow Vitaliy to work for them. They would sometimes pay him with bread.

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