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Overview
Juliana Starosolska was taken by the Stalinists from her parents’ home in the western Ukrainian city of Lviv and deported in a sealed boxcar to a distant and primitive outpost in Siberian Kazakhstan. In Woman in Exile, she records her ordeals in a series of vignettes that capture the horrific, the humane, and even the occasionally humorous aspects of her experience.
Her father was arrested by the Stalinists and sent to a forced labor camp deep in Russian Siberia, where he died less than two years later. In the spring of 1940, the rest of his family, who had remained behind in Ukraine—Juliana; her frail mother, Daria; and her brother, Ihor—were forcibly deported by the Soviet government. They were forced to live and work under the most brutally primitive and backbreaking conditions.
After the death of her mother and the reassignment of her brother to a different part of Kazakhstan, Juliana found herself alone. When World War II ended, as a former Polish citizen, Juliana was allowed to leave Kazakhstan for Poland in 1946. She immigrated to the United States in 1967, where she resumed her journalistic and literary career.
Now she tells the story of those difficult years—of her time as a Woman in Exile.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781462003723 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | iUniverse, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 05/05/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| File size: | 1 MB |
Read an Excerpt
WOMAN IN EXILE
My Life in KazakhstanBy Juliana Starosolska
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2011 Juliana StarosolskaAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-0371-6
Chapter One
In the Boxcar
I have a recurring nightmare. Each time there's a slight variation in the detail, but the circumstances are always the same and I wake up, paralyzed in fear, sometimes drenched in a cold sweat, and for a long time I lie motionless. I'm too terrified to open my eyes; I'm afraid that instead of the familiar surroundings, the outline of the window, the book shelves, the glint of the mirror, I will see the bowels of a railroad boxcar filled with dozing figures, huddled everywhere. Lying there in a panic, before I dare open my eyes, I first make certain that the sound, which in my dream was the monotonous clacking of train wheels, is really the sound of some appliance in the apartment overhead or perhaps the rumble of trucks in the street. The sharp, piercing whistle of a Soviet locomotive, a sound unlike any that I have ever heard, echoing always like a curse or a cry of despair, fades with the dream. I listen to the familiar sounds of a big city and slowly force my heart to relax. My thoughts, nonetheless, keep returning to that boxcar, to which we—my mother, my brother and I—were taken on that ill-fated morning of Friday the thirteenth, April 1940.
At first it seemed that the boxcar could not possibly fit any more people, crammed as it already was with people and packages. Nevertheless we boarded and squeezed our way in with our wicker trunk that had so often accompanied us on our happy holidays to Pidliute. Then, it held linens, dishes and books. Now, we weren't exactly sure what it contained because we were given less than twenty minutes to pack. We filled the trunk with whatever was at hand, whatever caught our eye; there was no time to choose between things that might be useful. We shoved the trunk into the boxcar, thinking that it might possibly serve as a cot for our mother, since all the berths had already been taken. We managed to secure a spot for her next to the trunk, where she could sit on the smaller bundles.
In my dream the boxcar always appears to me as it was at night. Maybe that's because at night each of us sank deep into ourselves, into our own thoughts. At night the car was loaded with fifty human tragedies. During the day people reclaimed their voices, reclaimed their identities as physical beings, with physical needs to eat, drink, and to breathe, (yes, because even the air seemed rationed). But at night all the bodies seemed to melt into the darkness of the boxcar. Each one of us would arrange ourselves as comfortably as we could for the night but it was probably only the children who slept deeply, secure in their slumber. The rest were rarely blessed with such sweet oblivion. Despair, worry and sorrow took over. They filled the car with a nearly palpable mist, a dark veil, like threads of a cobweb creeping from one huddled figure to the next. Even as I slept I could sense this plasma of fear, this tacky fog that emerged at night from the depths of human souls.
Sometimes, the soft whispers of two figures might be heard as they leaned into one another. Somewhere someone sobbed. Someone else murmured prayers, or maybe, while in half-sleep, conversed with a phantom being.
Because—suddenly—Fate had split in two the lives of all who were in that boxcar. All matters, important and unimportant, all carefully constructed plans were slashed when a pitiless force seized them all at night and hurled them into this boxcar. Until that moment, everyone had gone to sleep with some assurance of a tomorrow and now that tomorrow was gone. Matters of love, hate, anger, hurt, ordinary troubles and joys—all these were left behind, outside the sealed boxcar. Now it was too late to repair or alter those final words spoken in anger. Apprehension about the future mingled with a regret for the past and an anxiety about those left behind—with a longing to see them just one more time, to speak just one more word, to do just one more thing.
During those initial moments in the boxcar, people acted as if in a hypnotic trance. Everyone seemed oblivious of everyone else, thinking only to claim a space for themselves and for their loved ones. Amid the general desperate bustle, everything revolved around the self. The thoughts and emotions of those who were being locked in were not focused on the underlying reality of the boxcar doors slamming shut. Instead they thought about petty matters: their little bundles, a place to sit. Some subconscious instinct seemed to make people turn to the minutiae of physical existence so as to drown out an essential and oppressive reality. This bustling, nervous activity seemed to come from an inner need to prove to ourselves that although we were being deported as prisoners, we were, in some way, still capable of acting as free individuals.
But possibilities for action in a packed boxcar are limited. Everything seemed, somehow, set. Still, it seemed terribly important to inspect the contents of our bundles. And so, again and again, almost everyone re-checked what they brought. And then, when even this task was completed and there was nothing else left to do, all defenses against the grim reality of the situation were lost.
Slowly, all of us, uprooted from our normal environment, began to create a new community—of people locked in a boxcar. Before, many things had both united and divided us. In our previous lives we were people of diverse nationalities, ages, faiths and occupations. Here, in the boxcar, our shared desire to arrange our common quarters as best we could also caused friction, because in this cramped space, we inevitably got in each other's way.
After the initial bustle, everyone tried to press through to the one tiny window to glimpse, at least, the outer world—to look at Lviv. There were many trains like ours standing at the freight station. They were visible to one side of us and we could see others, like us, peering through tiny windows of their own. To the other side we could make out the roofs of the townhouses of upper Horodetska Street.
So we sat there at the Lviv station, for maybe a day, maybe more. Time under such circumstances seems to acquire a different dimension. It seemed to us that as long as we could see a patch of sky over Lviv, there was still some hope. Something could happen, someone might intervene on our behalf, maybe they would let us go, maybe one of us might succeed in escaping. But we were guarded by armed soldiers. At night the cars were lit up with bright spotlights that lent a surreal quality to the entire area. Occasionally a shot was heard—maybe someone had tried to escape. Sometimes someone could be heard crawling beneath the railroad cars searching for family members. A name or surname was called and then repeated, from car to car, from train to train. The guards, however, quickly chased away such "visitors."
Suddenly, sounds of wailing and lamentation could be heard. One train after another began to move. The cries in the boxcars were echoed by the cries of people standing along the tracks, in the streets and on the embankments. This mournful wail that escorted the transports, now often comes to me in my dreams as the musical accompaniment to the nightmarish vision of the night in the boxcar.
I always see the boxcar at night. It may be that those physical depredations of hunger, lack of air, confinement, filth, and cold, although more difficult to bear at the time, left shallower scars than the horror of separation, the fear, and the despair that emerged when the black wings of night enveloped the people in the boxcar.
Chapter Two
Hail, Kyiv! Farewell, Kyiv!
Our train, only one of many, circled Lviv and then swiftly headed east. It first passed through villages and towns whose names were familiar to us either because we personally had visited them or from stories of others who lived or visited there. We were always trying to find some way of getting word back to our relatives and friends. It seemed to be a matter of great importance for us. We dropped notes through the window to passers-by, even when the train was in motion. Occasionally we'd see someone pick up a note and then wave to us. Maybe, we thought, they would mail it home. But what home? We no longer had a home. Well then, if not to our home, then at least to our hometown—to our people.
When we reached Ternopil two people from each boxcar were allowed out to fetch water—under guard, of course. There was a huge crowd near the station's pump where we were allowed to draw water. We noticed looks of compassion, and we were peppered with questions, but no one was allowed to come near us. A railroad worker, taking advantage of a guard's momentary inattention, ran up to me and handed me a small package. Back in the car I saw that he had given me a lunch that his wife, no doubt, prepared for him to take to work. Two slices of bread with a sausage—what a touching gesture!
And then we traveled on. We came to the border—the former frontier. We entered the territory of Greater Ukraine1, known to us only from legend and history; it was the home of our dreams. Only Mother had actually ever been here. Long ago she traveled here from Halychyna, smuggling contraband literature, when, as members of liberation organizations, our parents struggled against the tsarist regime. How different was her mode of travel now! She sat there in her little corner, resting her head, characteristically inclined on her hand. Her shining dark eyes, filled with quiet resignation, took on a look of despair only when she gazed at us. Her concern was only for us, never for herself.
The crossing of the border became apparent not only because the place names were now unfamiliar to us, the landscape changed as well. Poorly cultivated fields, grey, neglected buildings and shabbily dressed people who stared at us (and we them) were everywhere. Everything—people and structures—took on a characteristically gray complexion.
In Zhmerynka we took on water again. And here again, there was a crowd that stared at us. But these looks were marked more with curiosity than compassion. Once more I tried to pass along a postcard. Although we were well guarded, I walked past a young girl, close to my own age. She stood there eyeing us carefully. Taking advantage of the guard's momentary distraction I handed her my letter and asked, "Please buy some stamps and mail this letter."
The girl, noticing that I had given her some coins along with the letter, returned them to me and said, "Don't worry, I'll mail it!" Then she added, "And all of you stare at us as if we were some kind of wild beasts!" Surprised, I wanted to ask what she meant by that, but we were being herded on. For a long time I thought about her words. What was she thinking? Why would we possibly consider these people to be "wild beasts"? Was it because of their pathetically poor clothing, in contrast to ours? Or was it because, without a shot being fired, they invaded our homeland and were now behaving like "wild beasts" there? As I sat there locked in the freight boxcar, the words of this "free" girl continued to ring in my ears.
But here was Golden-domed Kyiv! My brother and I were finally lucky enough to make our way to the little window—usually so crowded by our fellow travelers. At last, it seemed, they recognized that we too had a right to look out the window.
I stood with my brother by the window, gazing. We were atop a bridge over a wide river. The sun was setting and in its golden light we saw the steep banks of the Dniepr River. The train crossed the bridge very slowly, barely moving. We caught sight of Volodymyr's Hill; we thought that maybe we could even make out the statue of St. Volodymyr. The sun gilded the church domes. We looked out at the capital of Ukraine, the city of our dreams, the city we so longed to see. The train paused momentarily in the middle of the bridge. A hush came over the boxcar. Wordlessly, silently, attentively we gazed, gorging ourselves on this magnificent, sun-gilded landscape. Hail Kyiv! Farewell Kyiv!
And then, ever onward, ever eastward! Where to? No one ever responded to our questions, not the guards who sometimes brought bread or let us out to fetch water, nor the people who walked past the train, nor the inhabitants of the towns and villages, whom we passed on our way to the water stations. There were so many people here, young and old, people with children, people with bundles. They stared at us, and we at them. Where were all these people going? Why were they on the move? Only later did we learn the reason behind this mass migration of peoples. In the Soviet Union life was hard everywhere and everyone was searching for a better place to live.
At a more extended stop, we saw another train with its locomotive stationed near our car. We called out to the train engineer, "Do you know where they're taking us? What will become of us?"
He pretended not to hear, but as soon as it was dark, he approached our window and asked who we were and where we had come from. When we explained that we were Ukrainians from Lviv, and that we are being deported to some unknown destination, he looked around to make sure there was no one nearby and said, "I don't know exactly where it is that they are taking you, but my own family, all of them, is somewhere out there. Don't despair, this can't last forever. There has to be an end to this misery."
He promised to find out about the destination of our train, but before he could return, our train moved on and we never saw him again.
The names of the small stations became meaningless to us now; we had never heard of any of them. And now, here were the Ural Mountains, somehow smaller than we had imagined. We all had known them only as a brown-colored chain of mountains on a map, beyond which Asia lay. Now Asia greeted us with a sandstorm. Long after the storm was over, even though we had tightly secured the tiny window, we continued to find sand in every nook of our boxcar, in our clothing and among our belongings.
Each day, breathing the air in the boxcar became more difficult. The small hole which was meant to serve as a toilet was simply a travesty. We had curtained it off with blankets and sheets, each one of us contributing as best we could, but it became impossible to keep clean and the increasingly noxious odors spread throughout the car because there was no water to wash off the boards around the hole.
Every morning began with the same girl's full-throttled voice, bellowing from the window of our neighboring car, "Water, water!" Sooner or later, the guards, having grown tired of listening to this persistent yelling, would then unlock the boxcars, one at a time, and let out two people from each car to fetch the water. The problem was, however, that there were no really suitable water containers. Sometimes the guards brought us bread. But not everyone respected it properly. Some still had food supplies from home and this heavy dark bread did not suit their tastes. Others had absolutely no food at all so we shared what we had with them. Somewhere beyond the Urals, children ran up to our tiny window and begged for... bread. This was a clear message for us all to appreciate the bread we had. What kind of future lay in store for us if these "free" people came to us to beg for bread?
Gradually we began to lose a sense of time; as we moved farther east, the time of sunrise and sunset changed; it became for us the measure of our eastward journey. Judging by the sun's position we reckoned that the train had changed direction: we were now heading south. We saw more mountains outside our little window, but what these were, we did not know.
We had been traveling for nearly three weeks when the train made a night stop and remained there longer than ever before. In the morning, as we rose from our sleep on the floorboards, we looked through our window to see the steppe, still covered with snow and depressing in its monotony. Only by peering very carefully were we able to make out houses. A wind blew carrying sand and pebbles played a tune on the telephone poles. From other boxcars we heard the clanging of doors opening; at first the sound came from far away, then closer and closer, finally reaching our neighboring car. At last our own door opened. We had arrived at our destination.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from WOMAN IN EXILE by Juliana Starosolska Copyright © 2011 by Juliana Starosolska. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Foreword....................ixIntroduction....................xiii
Chapter 1. In the Boxcar....................1
Chapter 2. Hail, Kyiv! Farewell, Kyiv!....................5
Chapter 3. A Human Being, Writ Large....................10
Chapter 4. Akhmir....................17
Chapter 5. Our Horse Adventures....................23
Chapter 6. O My Oxen My Curley-horned Oxen!....................35
Chapter 7. Jok....................40
Chapter 8. Letters....................46
Chapter 9. Tychon Moiseievych....................50
Chapter 10. Pasha Kopieikina....................55
Chapter 11. An Enchanted Night....................58
Chapter 12. Toujours l'Amour....................61
Chapter 13. God's Christmas Tree....................68
Chapter 14. Kariss....................73
Chapter 15. Justice....................93
Chapter 16. Thou Shalt Not Steal....................98
Chapter 17. A Happy Man's Shirt....................106
Chapter 18. Somewhere, Spring Was Coming!....................111
Chapter 19. The Spoils of War....................115
Chapter 20. The History of a Tunic....................121
Chapter 21. Smoke....................126
Chapter 22. Amnesty....................134
Chapter 23. Prayers for the Repose of the Soul....................139
Chapter 24. Mirror, Mirror on the Wall....................147
Chapter 25. Love Has More Than One Name....................152
Chapter 26. The Easter Egg....................157
Chapter 27. Going Home....................161
Chapter 28. In a Foreign City....................167
Author's Note to the Third Edition....................171