I don t want to see you here anymore! Winter 1943

  The headman of our farm in the Krasnodar region, Kalinichenko, tried to be polite. In the winter, from 1942 to 1943, the Germans, who were stationed in our village,  forced him to write a list of women whose husbands were officers in the Soviet Army. Such spouses would be executed. The headman felt sorry for our mother and did not include her on the list. And when again he was forced to make a list of women to be sent to Germany, to labor camps, our mother tearfully asked him not to include her on that list. He told the Germans that milkmaid Medvedeva has a little girl, who in addition to being ill, would be better off driving cattle to Germany, only to the train station. There were special trains for livestock. And there was an instruction to drive the cattle, that is, deliver the animals to Germany. The headman Kalinichenko also told our mother to simply stay at home, while Germans are packing the trains, and if caught, pretend that no one told her to go to the station. This is precisely what we did, stayed at home, and in a big hurry to flee Germans forgot about us.
   I’ll return to earlier events. In the fall, my mother was advised by villagers that the potatoes could be kept in the pit for the winter. We had a small cellar, where we stored milk, vegetables, and food leftovers. We dug a hole 1.5 m deep and a meter per meter in length. We covered the floor with straw, and covered the walls with straw as much as possible, then poured 50 buckets of potatoes and covered them with straw. We stuck in three reeds for the air, covered them with earth so that air would pass through the reed holes, trampled the ground, and in the spring of 1943 when we opened a hole, the potatoes were fresh as if they just came from the garden. For consumption, we had several boxes stored in the cellar. It turned out that everyone there did this, and in the spring people would sell the potatoes. So did we, selling extra potatoes and stolen milk to make cottage cheese, bought ourselves clothes, shoes, and some dishes and linens. Workers of the farm stole both wheat and seeds, even corn for chickens so that the Germans would get less if they wanted to take it away.
   It's good that the train passed not far from us. Manka Rodina and I stuffed cloth bags with cottage cheese (then there were no plastic or plastic bags), took saucers and got on the train, got up at the station, got on the tram, and went to the bazaar. I always had a line of people at the bazaar. Manka almost always had sour cottage cheese. People tried her cheese and walked away, but I always had a fresh one. We were selling for the same price, 10 rubles a saucer. I’d sell my cheese and sit waiting for Manka to finish. Time to get on the train would come while she did not sell her cheese. What was I to do? Feeling sorry for Manka. I sat down next to her and told her customers: "Do not be alarmed that the curds are a little sour, mine also was sour, I then poured fresh milk into it, let it soak for a while, drained the milk and the milk was useful for making pancakes, while the curds became fresh. Milk is cheaper than cottage cheese, do buy only half a liter and you will see I'm not lying." The women smiled, bought milk nearby, took cottage cheese from Manka, and said: "We'll see." "In two days we'll be here again," I answered, "so we'll meet; yes, and my friend's cottage cheese will be fresh, I'll teach her how to make cottage cheese correctly." "It's time you teach her," the woman laughed, "since you are such a master."
   Winter 1942-43 has not yet passed. We, the kids, as always, secretly from the headman, went into the woods to chop up old tree branches for heating. We tied an ax at the belt under the jacket. We tried to be quiet, so the knocking of an ax won’t be heard for a kilometer, otherwise, the headman on horseback would rush in, take away the firewood and punish our parents. Styopka, Kolka, Sashka Vertiy, Manka, and I — five people. We chopped the old branches, talked, and our hands got frozen, we rubbed them and chopped more firewood. We chopped, tied the branches with ropes, and dragged them. Styopka would pull his firewood by 200 meters, then he’d return to help me. Kolka was helping the girl Manka, and Sasha Vertiy was busy with his own wood. When there were 150 meters left to the house, it was our last rest stop. Suddenly, from behind a stack of straw, the headman was prancing on a beautiful horse straight toward us: "So, so! Handsome men, is it bad to heat the house with a straw? Is it better with firewood? Is it better?" The girl Manka came immediately to me and lowered her head as if saying let Galka answer. I decided to be silent and let the guys give the response. "Well, at least those kids have working fathers, but who sent you, Sashko, your grandpa or grandma? Ha? “ Headman Kalinichenko spoke in hohol dialect, sometimes in katsap.  –"I won’t do it anymore. I was not sent by anyone, I just cut some dead branches". I wondered if the headman would scold me too, because I, or rather we, will warm up the house for both his son and his sister at home since they lived together with us. And the headman, looking suddenly at no one, but staring somewhere into the distance, said dully, even quietly: "Well, well, quickly grab your firewood and into the barn and I don’t want to see you here anymore. Understood?" And he whipped his horse. He was late somewhere.
   This was in January and in February something happened that we did not even expect. What was the commotion? Suddenly our traitorous shepherds crawled as if out of the ground, in new German uniforms, leather gloves, and boots, they walked through the state farm. To the question from the adults: "Well, Judas, how many of our people did you kill?" "We didn't kill anyone, we just serve," they answered. "So, the German policemen?" Grandfather Ivan said angrily. "Shut up, grandfather," said one of them, showing a revolver hanging from his side.