Rostov. Bombing. Kushchevka. Stepnyansky grain sta

      Already in the afternoon, we were at the station in Rostov. Our mother found out that there was no train in the direction of Kazan because the railway was bombed, but there is a train in the direction of Krasnodar. There was not enough money for tickets to Krasnodar, so our mother took tickets to Kushchevka, which is 85 km. from Rostov, going South. In Rostov, at the railway station, the German military planes began bombing incessantly. The frightened crowd of people did not know where to hide, hundreds of people pressed onto each other, and in a stampede, our mother, my sister, and I found ourselves on the ground. There was no air to breathe. We were saying our goodbyes. The mother hugged my sister and me and said in a deathly voice: "We will all die together, so as not to cry one after another," and began to cross herself often and fast. Suddenly the crowd dispersed and people shouted "U-r-r-r-a!". We were freed, and everyone rushed to kiss the Red Army artillerists who had driven away the German airplanes. So we survived, thanks to the brave fighters who shot at the planes, hitting them well. Some German planes fell, and some simply fled in fear. One little girl was killed by a fragment of an exploded bomb.
   It was dangerous to stay at the train station. The bombing continued that day. The Germans were given the task of destroying the railway, preventing advancement to the rear. Our train was packed with people. There was nothing to eat. We were hungry. One woman gave us sunflower seeds and we endured hunger until evening. One of the bridges was bombed and we had to wait for it to be repaired. Late in the evening, at the railway station Kushchevka, my mother left us at the station and went to sell the coats. She sold them or exchanged them for food because she brought back a large watermelon and bread. We refreshed ourselves, calmed down, and went to ask for a night stay. One woman, the owner of one of the houses agreed to let us into the yard so that we could spend the night in a stack of straw. She allowed us to cook dumplings over the fire. Mom had flour and vegetable oil. We gladly ate these dumplings late in the evening, at night. Early in the morning, my mother had to go to the office to look for a job. 18 km. from Kushchevka, or 67 km. from Rostov, there was a branch of the Stepnyansk grain farm, which also held livestock. That day our mother was sent there to work as a milkmaid. The three of us went to live there. By the evening we arrived at the place, but due to the lack of housing, we were temporarily placed to live right in the office. The manager and the accountant made room for us and we occupied one of the corners. When the bosses went home after work, my mother would spread straw on the floor and we would sleep. In the morning we were removing the straw, swiping the floor clean, and no one believed that we lived there. Then the manager Kalinichenko found out that we were the family of a commanding officer, that my mother's husband Medvedev Ivan Yakovlevich (our stepfather) was a political instructor at the frontline, and Kalinichenko made some arrangements. From the military registration and enlistment office, our mother Medvedeva Anastasia Alekseevna received a notice to come to Kushchevka (this was our regional center) to receive money according to a certificate for the commander of I. Y. Medvedev, her husband. I don’t remember the monthly amount. It seemed to me then that it was unfair to other women, but things worked that way. The wife of the political instructor was held in high esteem by the authorities and my mother tried to justify their trust, she worked hard and did not spare herself. If we had been adopted by Uncle Vanya, Lena and I would also have received a certificate (money).  But we were not adopted because my sister Lena chose not to and threatened me to not agree to adoption. That's when Lena realized her mistake. Of all the milkmaids, only our mother received a certificate or financial benefit.
   Chairman Kalinichenko instructed the workers to occupy the calf barn for housing. Within one month the two-room apartment was ready. First of all, they installed a stove, frames, a door for our family, a corridor, and then they situated the other evacuees. This is how our neighbors of the Rodina, Makhota, Vanarchuk, Lugansk, Postriganov, Rud, and others appeared, some evacuees had already left, and others came in their place.  Apart from the Rodina and Makhota, Antsibarikha and Lugansk families were remembered especially. In total, six families of evacuees were accommodated in the barracks. This new barrack was built before the summer of 1942. I remember when there was still a calf barn, a good Ukrainian woman, Aunt Ksenia Kozub, worked as a calf caretaker there. She invited my sister Lena and me to her workplace and offered us fresh, warm milk, saying: "Have some milk, there is plenty for the calves, and your children need some." She sang Ukrainian songs, and her voice was extraordinary and immersing. But, as a rule, Satan does not give a good life to good people. Soon her only son died during the bombing at his wedding, and both he and his bride were gone. Then Aunt Ksenia once secretly picked a handful of wheat grain leftovers from the field, and the foreman saw it and reported. By Stalin's decree, Aunt Ksenia received five years in prison. I will never forget her!
 Behind our barracks, there was a road near a well: to the left, it led to the calf barn, to the state farm orchard, and through the landing straight to the railway siding "67 km." Next to the rail tracks, and the right, it led towards the bases with cows, to the barn and plantings, from where we children stole trees for firewood; zhardels grew there, as wild apricots are called in the Kuban. When cutting down the trees for wood, the adults were punished, so the children took advantage of the fact that if they were caught cutting dry branches, collective farm workers would take away the firewood, scold them, and children would cry, cause pity, and be let go.
 In the summer village, children gathered apricots and then dried them on the roof of the barracks. Dry apricots were used to make fruit drink compote. In our attic, the collective farm workers kept corn on the cob. Sometimes Lena and I were asked to help workers peel the corn. We agreed with pleasure because during that evening we would work and also sing so many songs along with the women. We enjoyed singing, so we often volunteered our help to the field workers, which made the management very happy.
   We lived in this barrack apartment from 1942 to August 1946. We are here...