Over the next few days, the Germans settled into the buildings and houses that had been abandoned by the Soviets just days earlier. Floods of German-speaking refugees came into town on the heels of the army. These people did not speak our languages, and they didn’t know our town or our customs, yet they were given jobs and were assigned the houses of people the Soviets had previously deported or executed.
Each day was filled with necessary chores. Mama still cleaned at Doctor Mina’s and picked up other odd jobs as she could.
Once, as I was bringing home a pail of water, a uniformed woman with her brown hair pulled back into a tight bun stood waiting at our door.
“May I help you?” I asked, setting the pail down.
“Is this where Kataryna Fediuk lives?”
“That’s my mother,” I said. Had she done something to annoy the Germans? My heart pounded so hard I thought it would explode. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
The woman’s forehead creased. “She’s not in trouble. I just need to ask her something.”
I exhaled. “This is where we live, yes, but my mother isn’t home. She works as a cleaner.”
“I have the right place, then,” the woman said. “Didn’t she clean the Tarnowsky house before the Soviet Occupation?”
“She did,” I said, surprised that this German would know that. It was a job Mama had taken soon after Tato died in 1936, to help make ends meet. But then the entire Tarnowsky family had been executed by the Soviets because they were rich.
“The Commandant will be living there now,” said the woman. “He asked me to locate some of the old staff. Tell your mother she will start tomorrow.” The woman didn’t even wait for a reply before she turned and left.
When Mama got home and I told her about her new job, she sank down heavily in a kitchen chair. “That is a big place and a lot of work, but a job is a job.”
Meanwhile, the radio continued to broadcast news of Ukrainian independence for three days. But then the announcements suddenly stopped.
I worried about my cousins, Borys and Josip. I also hadn’t seen Uncle Ivan, except for the day the Germans arrived. Why hadn’t they and the other Ukrainians come out of hiding? It also worried me that the Ukrainian independence poster had disappeared so quickly. Every hour stretched out with me holding my breath, waiting to hear about whether my uncle and cousins were safe.
These new Germans were definitely settling in and making Viteretz their own. As I went about my daily chores, I noticed that each day more empty houses were filling up with either soldiers or newly arrived German families. And with so many Germans around, we were all getting more practice in speaking the language.
These new invaders were cleaner and more orderly than the Soviets, but they both had some things in common. Just like the Soviets, the Germans seemed keen on creating lists, but where the Soviets’ lists were about money and education, the Germans’ were about heritage. They even had researchers go through the birth records, all the way back to grandparents. They seemed most interested in German and Jewish heritage. I wondered what the Germans were up to, with these lists.
To take my mind off it all, I plunged into my work, like taking Krasa to pasture, milking her and selling whatever was left to our neighbours, either as milk, butter or cream.
One morning when I tapped on the Segals’ door to let them know their milk and butter were on the step, the door opened. “Krystia,” said Mrs. Segal. “I’ve been meaning to show you something.”
“I can’t stay,” I said, pushing my hand-cart into a shady area beside her house. “There are more deliveries to be made.”
“It will only take a moment,” she said, beckoning me in.
The layout of her house was similar to ours, but they had three back rooms to our one, and instead of a cowshed they had a modern outhouse. The floor of their main room had an intricately patterned wool carpet that felt nice on the soles of my feet. Mrs. Segal’s cane leaned up against the wall — she’d had polio when she was younger — but instead of using the cane she steadied her balance by holding on to furniture. “Come to the darkroom.”
My nose wrinkled at the sweet tang of the film-developing chemicals and I blinked a few times to get used to the darkness. Curved papers hung on what looked like a miniature clothesline.
“They’re dry now,” Mrs. Segal said, unclipping one and handing it to me.
It was a picture of Mama, with me and my sister. It had been taken as the Germans paraded down our street. Mrs. Segal’s camera had caught me as I’d launched a flower into the air.
“What a wonderful photograph,” I said, and I really meant it. But why did looking at it make me feel so sad? I handed it back to her.
She smiled. “It’s for you, Krystia.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I will cherish this.”
Dolik was standing by my hand-cart when I stepped back outside.
“There you are,” he said. “I noticed your cart sitting here and wondered what had happened to you.”
“Mrs. Segal gave me a photograph,” I said, showing it to him.
He looked at it carefully. “Very nice. Your whole family together. I like how she captured the flower in mid-air.”
His comment about my whole family — now I knew what bothered me about the picture. It reminded me yet again that I had no father. A familiar sadness washed over me, but I took a deep breath and willed it away. What good would it do to always feel sorry for myself? It wouldn’t bring Tato back.
I took the photo from Dolik and tucked it into my pocket. “Aren’t you supposed to be delivering medicines for your mother?” I asked him.
“She doesn’t have them ready yet, so I thought I’d walk with you.”
It was such a sweet thing to do that I couldn’t help but smile. Why had I ever thought Dolik was unfriendly? It wasn’t his fault that my father was dead.
We walked to the rest of the houses and delivered the milk, butter and cream. Along the way we chatted.
“What’s going on with your cousins?” Dolik asked. “I never see them around lately.”
“I wish I knew.”
“Hopefully you’ll hear something soon. It must be hard on your aunt not knowing where her sons are, especially when her husband has just been buried.”
“You’re right. I should go over and help Auntie Iryna more. I’m sure she could use the company.”
After my last delivery, Dolik went back to his house to see if his mother had the medicines ready. Instead of going immediately home, I visited Auntie Iryna for a bit, then stopped by the Fediuk Brothers’ Blacksmith Shop that had been run by Tato and Uncle Roman. The shop was on the same side of the street as our house, halfway between us and Auntie Iryna. I pushed open the door and was enveloped in cool darkness and the distinctive scent of beeswax and linseed oil.
All at once, my mind filled with an image of my father poised at his work stool, his face illuminated by coal fire. I used to sit quietly in the corner of this shop, watching as he worked the bellows to heat the forge. The back of his neck would glisten with sweat. It was like magic, seeing him transform a piece of iron into a horseshoe or hammer. Once each item was completed, he’d coat it with a mixture of beeswax and linseed oil to keep it from rusting.
As my eyes adjusted, I saw that Uncle Roman had been in the midst of making a tiny hacksaw. I picked it up and set it on the palm of my hand. The handle was finished and sealed, and the blade was cut, but the pieces hadn’t been bolted together.
On a nearby shelf were nearly a dozen tiny hacksaws lined up neatly, coated in oil and wax. Why had Uncle Roman left them out in the open? Surely the Soviets had known what they were for. Many people had one of these tucked into a cuff or the brim of a hat. That way, if the NKVD arrested you and threw you in a boxcar, you could try to cut your way out by sawing through the hinges of a door or a barred window. With the Soviets gone, would these be needed anymore? But Uncle Roman had made them — they were likely the last things he’d made before he died. I bolted together the one he was working on, rubbed it with a cloth that smelled of oil and wax, and lined it up with the others on the shelf.
When I got home, the house was empty, so I propped the photograph from Mrs. Segal against a vase of flowers on the table. From the bedroom I got Mr. Segal’s portrait of my parents’ wedding and set it beside the new photograph. Now my whole family was together again, if only in pictures.
That older photograph showed Tato and Mama standing side by side in their finery, him towering over her in his dark wool suit and her looking up at him with love. Her fitted white wedding dress went down to her calves and she held a bouquet of calla lilies. There was so much promise, so much love and hope on both of their faces. What did they think their future would hold?
In the newer picture Mama had a smile on her lips, but her eyes were sad. And what would Tato think of his daughters, with their threadbare skirts and calloused hands? Had he lived, Mama’s eyes would still sparkle. I missed the feel of Tato’s bristly cheek when he kissed me as he tucked me in at bedtime. I missed his familiar scent of linseed oil and beeswax.
I held the wedding photo to my lips and kissed the image of Tato, and then that long-ago carefree Mama. How I wished there were something I could do to bring that hope back to her eyes.
I took a deep breath and looked at the picture of Tato one more time. He was dead, that was true, but parts of him lived on in me. He wasn’t here to take the worry off Mama’s face, but I was. Maria was a big help to Mama too, always stepping in to take on the tedious tasks that could wear Mama down. But Maria was afraid of every little thing, and I was the oldest. I had never really thought of it before, but now I knew. “No matter what the future has in store for us,” I whispered, “I will be brave for Mama. That is my promise to you, dear Tato.”