Marsha Skrypuch - Don't Tell the Enemy

June 28, 1941, Viteretz, Ukraine

I huddled close to my sister under the comforter and prayed that we’d live through the night. At any moment the door might burst open and we could be dragged from our beds.

Another gunshot. Running footsteps. Screams.

A low, growling boom .

The bedroom flashed bright for one brief moment and I saw the terror on Mama’s face as she pointed the pistol towards the closed door. The room plunged back into darkness.

Silence. Moments passed.

“Krystia and Maria,” whispered Mama, “try to sleep. Maybe the Soviets will be gone by morning.”

How I longed to get back to what it was like before the war — enough food to eat, and not having to walk with my eyes cast to the ground, afraid to speak to a friend for fear of being arrested.

I lay back down on my pillow, listening for the next volley of gunfire.

We had all heard that the friendship between the Germans and Soviets had fallen apart, and that the Germans were pushing out the Soviets. But as that happened, the Soviets were like angry bees, attacking us civilians and stealing all they could as they fled.

As the minutes ticked by, Mama and Maria both drifted into sleep, and their rhythmic breathing muffled the sound of explosions — more distant now — but I could not relax. I tried to breathe slowly to lull myself asleep.

A low squeak of rusted hinges.

I bolted up. It sounded like someone opening the door of the cowshed alongside the house. I climbed out of bed, crept to the main room and pressed my ear against the wall.

A faint thump and then the crunch of straw. Someone was definitely in our hayloft. Was it someone fleeing from the Soviets? If we were caught hiding a runaway, they’d punish us.

If I were brave, I’d go there now and find out who it was, but I was too frightened to do that. Instead, I got back into bed and closed my eyes, praying that whoever was hiding in the shed would be gone by morning. I hoped Mama wouldn’t wake up and investigate the noise. What if the runaway got scared and shot her? With Tato already dead, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing Mama too. I forced myself to slowly breathe in and out, and prayed that the runaway would leave before we had to figure out what to do.

Somehow I slept.

Beams of daylight through the bedroom window woke me. All was silent. Mama slept, her pistol resting on her chest with one hand flopped on top of it. Even though I didn’t feel all that brave, I was the older daughter, so it was my responsibility to protect what was left of our family. I got out of bed, careful not to wake Maria, and slid the pistol out from under Mama’s hand. I put it into the pocket of my nightgown, then tiptoed to the big room.

With my ear against the wall, I listened, but now the only sound from the cowshed was Krasa’s familiar breathing. I peeked out at the road from behind the curtains. No soldiers. I grabbed the milking pail, opened the front door and stepped out.

It was almost too quiet. Across the road, the Segals’ house was dark. Beside it, St. Mary’s Ukrainian Catholic Church stood boarded up and silent, but there was a flicker of curtain from the window of Father Andrij’s house just beside it. Was his wife checking to see if it was safe to go out yet?

I stepped into the shed and put the pail down, then held the pistol with both hands and twirled around. No one was there — except for Krasa — and she was looking spooked. She stomped one hoof as if she were agitated from last night’s explosions and gunfire. Any intruder would have made it that much worse.

I held the gun behind my back and put my face up to hers. “Shhh,” I whispered, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

I climbed the wooden rungs to the loft, holding the gun in one hand. When my head was just below the hole in the floor I counted to three and burst up, trying to steady the pistol with one hand. “Don’t move!”

A scrabbling noise from the far corner. I pointed the pistol.

“Krystia! Put the gun down, it’s me.”

“Josip?” I climbed up the rest of the way. My cousin sat cross-legged in a nest of straw beside our stash of goods from Auntie Stefa in Toronto. Josip looked exhausted.

“The Soviet secret police nearly caught me last night.”

“Why would they be after you ?”

“The NKVD are always after someone. Right now they seem to be rounding up educated Ukrainians.”

“Where’s Borys?” I asked. My cousins were usually inseparable.

“There’s a good place in the forest. A lot of us have taken refuge there. I’m hoping Borys found it.”

“Is that where you’ll hide too?”

He shook his head. “The NKVD could follow me there.”

“You can stay here…”

“That would put you in danger.”

“But where will you go?”

He shrugged. “I’ll have to see.”

I crawled over to where Josip sat and rested my head on his shoulder. “I’ve really missed you since you’ve been off to university.”

“I miss you and Maria too,” he said.

“Can I visit you in Lviv after the Soviets leave?”

“I’d like that,” he said. “And I’m hoping that you can attend university yourself one day.”

“Maria too?”

“Of course.” He rested his hand on top of mine and I noticed his familiar crooked baby finger. Once, when we had been playing hide-and-seek, he’d got his finger caught in a door (it wasn’t my fault) and it ended up healing with a permanent bend.

“Why don’t you slip into the house by the bedroom window and Mama will make you breakfast?”

“That’s too dangerous, Krystia — for you and for me,” said Josip. “And I need to be on my way.”

“What about some milk from Krasa, then?” I asked.

“That sounds good,” said Josip. “And it will be quick.”

He followed me down the ladder and stood in the corner as I milked Krasa. When I was finished, he held the heavy pail to his lips and swallowed a few gulps.

“Go about your business as if I’m not here,” he told me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

I leaned into him and rested my head on his shoulder. “Stay safe, Cousin. You and Borys both.”

He kissed the top of my head. “You too, Cousin.”

We stood like that for a full minute before he stepped away. “Get going, Krystia.”

I slid the pistol into my pocket and blew Josip one last kiss, then hefted the bucket and walked back to the house.

Mama was wiping down the wood stove with a soapy rag. She paused mid-swipe as I set the bucket on the table. “Why did you do the milking in your nightgown. And why did you take my pistol?”

I gave Mama back the gun and told her about Josip. She inhaled sharply.

The bedroom door creaked open and Maria walked out, wearing the shabbier of our shared outfits. “I almost wore the good clothing, seeing as it was lying there, tempting me. But I decided that it wouldn’t be fair.”

To save arguments, the two of us had long ago agreed that the first one to rise got to wear the best skirt and blouse.

“Now, what’s this about Josip?” asked Maria.

“NKVD,” said Mama. “He’s in our shed.”

Maria’s face paled. “Doesn’t he know he’s putting us in danger?”