Lavrentiya Khariv Лаврентія Харів

"The year of 1953 most likely was the happiest one for me, for children and all adults. When Stalin died, it was very cold and snowstorm hit. There were Misko, myself and a Moldovan girl, Milia Tatarchuchka, from our barrack - her family name was Ukrainian, for her grandfather was from Ukraine. The three of us always went to school in this snowstorm, holding hands not to be blown off by the wind. We probably covered half the way, when a local girl coming back from school saw us and said, crying: Come back. What grief - Stalin is dead´. We didn’t think twice. We returned to Milia Tatarchuchka’s home and we jumped with joy. According to Moldovan tradition, there were not beds, but long sleeping platforms there for the entire family to sleep. It was so nice playing there! We were happy. All of us rejoiced. ´They might let us go home´ - we said. A 7-year-old child had these things on her mind, that they’ll let us go home! Something might have stuck. Sure enough, amnesties started soon afterwards."

"We stopped beyond the Urals once, and there were Crimean Tatars. I remember those two women, though from behind only. My mom asked them to bring some hot water to wash the child’s hair. The didn’t come back for a long time. My mom was worried and said: ´They must have been caught and punished´. However, they came back and brough water and some hot potatoes. When I meet Tatars now, I thank them for the hot potatoes. They always act surprised, so I start telling them how it was. They get all teary and so do I. Somehow it was the thing I remembered."

"Neither do I remember how they took is from the cell to the train. But the train itself...I’m sure it was at Pidzamche railway station, because we were not moving. Our wagon was standing there, the doors open on one side. The convoy stood on the same side, on the left. My mother’s sister brought us something to eat. We were sitting on crossties on the opposite side. A guard was checking what she brought. Aunt Mariika had children of the same age as we did. I believe something was hidden there, money, I think, for the convoy didn’t get there. He went over chicken eggs and, most likely, got bored, so he left. I think my mom paid him to let my aunt take me home. The auntie already held me, but I saw my mother crying and came back. That’s how I went."

"My dad was taken to prison. My mom, she was regularly dragged to that prison in Lontskyi street for interrogations. Later they left her alone, but they came and took us. My sister and I were at the club that day, playing. I wanted to go home, but my sister wouldn’t let me. I still ran away. Well, the club wasn’t that far away. We lived next to the church, so this was a short [distance], just two streets. I came running to the gate, and there was a truck. I saw my grandpa and grandma, my father’s parents, on the truck. It was summer, hot May, but she was wearing a warm jacket and covered with a green checkered shawl. I saw it, and I ran out to the yard. I saw their rank slides through the kitchen window and I ran off. I was afraid of their rank slides, or, maybe, I had a gut feeling. Anyway, they caught me and brought me to the kitchen. I saw my mother holding a sack and my grandmother taking bread out of the stove and putting it into the sack. Then they put us on that [truck]. I don’t know, my mom must have taken some other things, I don’t remember that. They drove us to Busk, not far away, some 20 kilometres. There was a very popular brewery. According to my mom, dark beer was extremely delicious. They stopped to drink some beer, and we were sitting on top of the truck with the convoy. They came back and gave me a chocolate bar. You know, I didn’t take it. My mother said: ´I was surprised you hadn’t taken it´. First, it was nothing out of the ordinary for us, for we always had it. However, I felt it was the wrong person."