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Authors: Marsha Forchuk Skrypuch
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Twelve hours was usual, although there were a few who toiled longer. Every few days, more labourers would arrive by train, yet it seemed that the camp always had room for more. On Saturdays we finished at noon, and Sunday, glorious Sunday, we usually had off.
The higher-class prisoners who didn’t wear the OST badge were allowed to use the train and go into town on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. A few did housekeeping for German civilians and would be fed as payment. Oksana and Marta used the privilege of their P badge to go into town and sell items that we girls in Barracks 7 made in our off-hours — sculptures made of discarded wood with a sharpened spoon as a carving tool, or small bits of embroidery made with thread and fabric I stole from the laundry. The two girls would stand in the streets, hawking our items. It was a dangerous thing to do and money was worthless in the camp, but they could barter for a piece of lard or a chunk of horsemeat,and these little bits kept the rest of us in Barracks 7 alive.
In the summer months, farmers would wait outside the camp on Saturday afternoons with their trucks. They would take a few lucky souls with them to work in their fields, and since there was no roll call on Sunday morning, those leaving on Saturday afternoon often wouldn’t come back until Sunday night. Juli was one who would go, and so would Natalia. How I longed to tear off my OST badge and go with them. But it wasn’t just the OST badge, it was proper papers, and those I didn’t have.
For Juli, it was the same farmer who picked her up each Saturday. She told me that Herr Klein and his wife despised Hitler and that they were kind and generous. They insisted that she eat at the table with them and their young daughter and she was served as much food as if she were family. Juli told me that they had two sons in the German army, both fighting on the Eastern Front. That sent chills down my spine. The Eastern Front was Ukraine!
Juli knew that if she was found smuggling food in, she could be shot, but she took the chance when she could. Once she smuggled in a thick piece of real bread made with rye flour. I wept for joy.
Natalia didn’t go with the same farmer each week. Most Saturdays she was paid in food and she would share whenever she could. Once she smuggled back a handful of real coffee beans. Each of us in Barracks 7 got at least one. I got two. The burst of flavour when I chewed the beans was glorious, but then all night I tossed sleeplessly, wondering and worrying about Larissa. Had she been taken to a camp like this? How could she possibly proveherself useful? I had worked myself up into such a worried state by the morning whistle that I vowed never to eat another coffee bean, no matter how delicious they were.
For brief snatched moments on the weekends, Luka and I would sit together behind the girls’ wash house and talk about life before the war. His father had been a pharmacist, but his store had been confiscated by the communists. In secret, Mr. Barukovich had continued to help the sick, and he began teaching Luka the art of mixing drugs.
“But our neighbour informed on him,” said Luka. “Tato was paraded through the streets as an ‘enemy of the people.’ Some of those he had secretly helped came out to watch. Not that I blame them — what else could they do? He was sentenced to ten years in Siberia.”
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“Still there, as far as I know…. Or dead.”
“Do you have any other family?”
Luka nodded slowly. “My mother,” he said. “She might be alive, somewhere in Germany. She was taken as a slave labourer before I was.”
“I want this war to end,” I told him. “Then you can find your parents and I can find my sister.”
Luka squeezed my hand. “Until that time, let’s watch out for each other. You are like the sister I never had.”
His words warmed my soul.
Often, by the time the weekend came, I was so tired that all I could do was sleep.
The higher-class prisoners who didn’t wear the OST badge were allowed to use the train and go into town on Saturday afternoons and Sundays. A few did housekeeping for German civilians and would be fed as payment. Oksana and Marta used the privilege of their P badge to go into town and sell items that we girls in Barracks 7 made in our off-hours — sculptures made of discarded wood with a sharpened spoon as a carving tool, or small bits of embroidery made with thread and fabric I stole from the laundry. The two girls would stand in the streets, hawking our items. It was a dangerous thing to do and money was worthless in the camp, but they could barter for a piece of lard or a chunk of horsemeat,and these little bits kept the rest of us in Barracks 7 alive.
In the summer months, farmers would wait outside the camp on Saturday afternoons with their trucks. They would take a few lucky souls with them to work in their fields, and since there was no roll call on Sunday morning, those leaving on Saturday afternoon often wouldn’t come back until Sunday night. Juli was one who would go, and so would Natalia. How I longed to tear off my OST badge and go with them. But it wasn’t just the OST badge, it was proper papers, and those I didn’t have.
For Juli, it was the same farmer who picked her up each Saturday. She told me that Herr Klein and his wife despised Hitler and that they were kind and generous. They insisted that she eat at the table with them and their young daughter and she was served as much food as if she were family. Juli told me that they had two sons in the German army, both fighting on the Eastern Front. That sent chills down my spine. The Eastern Front was Ukraine!
Juli knew that if she was found smuggling food in, she could be shot, but she took the chance when she could. Once she smuggled in a thick piece of real bread made with rye flour. I wept for joy.
Natalia didn’t go with the same farmer each week. Most Saturdays she was paid in food and she would share whenever she could. Once she smuggled back a handful of real coffee beans. Each of us in Barracks 7 got at least one. I got two. The burst of flavour when I chewed the beans was glorious, but then all night I tossed sleeplessly, wondering and worrying about Larissa. Had she been taken to a camp like this? How could she possibly proveherself useful? I had worked myself up into such a worried state by the morning whistle that I vowed never to eat another coffee bean, no matter how delicious they were.
For brief snatched moments on the weekends, Luka and I would sit together behind the girls’ wash house and talk about life before the war. His father had been a pharmacist, but his store had been confiscated by the communists. In secret, Mr. Barukovich had continued to help the sick, and he began teaching Luka the art of mixing drugs.
“But our neighbour informed on him,” said Luka. “Tato was paraded through the streets as an ‘enemy of the people.’ Some of those he had secretly helped came out to watch. Not that I blame them — what else could they do? He was sentenced to ten years in Siberia.”
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“Still there, as far as I know…. Or dead.”
“Do you have any other family?”
Luka nodded slowly. “My mother,” he said. “She might be alive, somewhere in Germany. She was taken as a slave labourer before I was.”
“I want this war to end,” I told him. “Then you can find your parents and I can find my sister.”
Luka squeezed my hand. “Until that time, let’s watch out for each other. You are like the sister I never had.”
His words warmed my soul.
Often, by the time the weekend came, I was so tired that all I could do was sleep.
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