23 June, 08:00 — The next morning, our store becomes a mad house. The milk man, the blacksmith, and two firemen show up first and buy everything they can get their hands on: rope, tack, rucksacks, camping equipment, tools, and kerosene.
“We all need to calm down. It’s going to be okay,” I say.
“Okay? Did you hear Molotov’s speech?” the milkman asks.
“Don’t overreact,” says the blacksmith. “The Germans would be attacking a 3,000-kilometer front. It’s inconceivable that they would have enough soldiers to wage such an offensive.”
“Then why are you buying all this stuff?” Herschel asks.
“Just in case,” the blacksmith says.
“If Germans are on their way, the Romanian border is only fifty kilometers west of here,” one of the firemen says.
More customers come in. Thank God I have my family to help. Mama and papa are old—in their 70s—and in the back of my head I’m really worried about them. What are they going to do?
In a lull in the madness, I pull Ita aside. “Go in the house and prepare to flee. In the warehouse I think you can find eight rucksacks. Pack one for each member of the family.”
Later, after the store is closed, together we steal away to our broom closet, lift a rug, and pry up a floorboard. We extract a box from the space beneath it, from which we pull out several un-cut gemstones, an amber ring, eight gold nuggets, four pairs of semi-precious earrings, Ita’s pearl necklace and some costume jewelry she can’t bear to leave behind.
In the dining room, we open the hutch and pull out our sterling silver collection: three sterling silver platters, two candle sticks, a candle snuffer, two nut dishes, a tea pot, a sugar bowl, a cream pitcher, and a heavy silver spoon. I strain under the weight of our silverware box, which contains service for twelve people.
Ita sews concealed pockets into our rucksacks, into which we stow small valuables. The larger silver items we distribute among each rucksack to keep the weight of each sack to a minimum.
Working with mama and Sarah, we calmly and thoughtfully fill the remaining space in all the rucksacks with food, clothing, medical supplies, and everything we can think of that might come in handy but that would not be too heavy to carry.
Ita leaves to deliver two rucksacks to mama and papa and two to Herschel and Sarah.
I look at my violin. There’s no room for that.
“You heard Molotov. The government is calling on all Soviet citizens to mobilize against Germany. There is no question that there will be a draft,” I say.
The room goes silent as I scan the Gershovich mishpaha assembled for dinner. All are in attendance.
“Shimon is twenty years old. I’m eighteen. We’ll be the first to go,” Yakov says.
“And what about you and Herschel?” Ita says.
“I don’t know. I… I’m forty-one, he’s forty-three. What’s the cut off age?” I ask.
“They can’t take me,” Herschel says, pointing at his leg.
“We don’t know!” Ita says.
“What happened to the non-invasion pact?” papa says as he raises his fist.
“If the Germans are invading, the government has to have been aware of a buildup of troops along the western border,” Herschel says.
“Now there is lots of non-information. Nobody knows what’s really happening or how bad the Germans might hurt us,” Ita says.
Everybody starts talking at the same time until I hold up my hands.
“Calm down. Everybody! They’re still a long way away, and I really don’t think the war is going to come to this small town of Kalarash,” I say.
“Don’t be so sure,” Sarah says.
“In the vastness of Russia, this is a low-priority place to attack,” papa says.
“Can I suggest something?” Ita says. The room grows quiet. “If the Germans come, they’ll be coming from the west, so if we have to run, it will be to the east.”
Mama gives papa a look of despair.
Ita continues, “In case that happens, and we get separated, we need to have a plan. We need a place to meet.”
There’s a deathly quiet pause as everyone absorbs the gravity of what Ita said out loud.
“We don’t want to go toward Kishinev; it will certainly be a focus of bombing,” Ita says.
“Most people will probably take the road toward Bravicea,” Yakov says.
“I say we hump it due east to Voinova,” Ita says. “About ten kilometers up that horse path, in the next valley, is the Kirilenko’s farm. Does everyone know where that is?” Ita asks.
Everyone nods.
“It’s agreed. If we get split up, everyone meets there. At the Kirilenko’s barn,” I say. “But most likely, that will never happen.”
“I hope you’re right,” papa says.
“Now everybody come get some food and stop this unpleasant conversation,” I say.
“Dinner is ready,” Ita says.
Ita keeps the radio on all the time for the next several days, hoping for news that the conflict was overstated and has been resolved.
We tend to the frenzy of business in the shop, raising prices amidst dwindling supplies. I can’t think of anything else but try not to bring it up. Finally, I say, “This big announcement and then nothing.”
“It’s been days, and still there have been no new announcements,” Ita says.
“Stalin has yet to address the Russian people about the war,” I say. “When is he going to weigh in?”