My memory has kept only a little from all the events of that time, 61 years ago. But some of them, that I am going to narrate here, can’t be forgotten.

It was in the winter of 1941. I was ten years old. We lived temporarily in an out-of-the-way village in the Ryazan district, where my mother went from Moscow with my four year old sister and me. We saved ourselves from the bombings of the German aircraft that became regular soon after the beginning of World War II. Our Moscow neighbor had relatives in this village and she invited us when she went there with her children. There were several so-called evacuated families that came to the village from Moscow.

There was a boy of my age named Victor in my class. He was also from Moscow. Both of us lived in the same house, so we inevitably became friends. We mixed with the local children. But it should be mentioned that they considered me a black sheep because I was a Jew.

Actually, in this village nobody ever saw a Jew. It is understandable because before the revolution of 1917, the Jews in Russia were allowed to live only in the South regions. Only a few of them, rich merchants, could live in central Russia and they usually settled in big cities. My poor tribesmen that penetrated central Russia after the revolution didn’t reach the villages because they were not accustomed to the peasants’ labor.

Nevertheless, all of the village population knew that Jews were bad people, for several reasons: We crucified their Russian Jesus Christ, we were leaders of the damned October Revolution and we created the ever-hated collective farms.

The collective farms were worth the common hate. By means of them Stalin restored the serfdom that was abolished in 1861 by the Tsar Alexander II. The peasants that constituted more than half of the population of the Soviet Union were forced to give the state all their produce. The labor days were registered and then after the harvest they received a small part of the produce that wasn’t sufficient for a decent living. Nobody could leave the collective farm because the passports of all of its members were locked up in the safes of the authorities. Without the passport a person in the Soviet Union could not get permission to live in an apartment, in a house, or to obtain a job anywhere. 

As a matter of fact, our family did not feel any hostility from the village people, in spite of their prejudice towards the Jews in general. Only a one-eyed brigadier who was my mother’s superior at work told her, “Both of us built the collective farms, so both of us will be punished by the Germans when they come.”            

At that time nobody doubted that the Germans would occupy the whole country. There was one aged village official that openly boasted, “I’ve managed to please three governments and I will please the fourth government also.”

Victor’s mother, our nearest neighbor and similarly evacuated person, liked to chat with my mother. Everyday she brought new information about the movements of the German army. It amazed us how she was excited and eager to meet the invaders. But she assured my mother, “Nina, don’t worry, we will hide your family!”

Shortly before the arrival of the Germans, my friend Victor came to me and began a confidential conversation. “Soon the Germans will come. They will certainly hang all your family. My mother will take your down pillows, linen, and the sewing machine. I will take your toy photo-camera, the text books, and the fountain pen.” I was stunned. I didn’t answer him and went away. It was obvious that his mother discussed the matter at the same time that she promised my mother to hide us.

Did my mother cry when I relayed to her the conversation? Not in my presence. Maybe when she remained alone, but I don’t know. And I never asked her later.

The Germans actually captured that part of the Ryazan district. The day came when the whole village became aware that the Germans were in the center town of the region, five miles from our village. And a bacchanalia began. People dashed to rob the collective farm’s barn where the produce was stored; rye, grain and flour mainly. (The former church was used as a barn.) A number of deserters from the army crawled out of the cellars.

Then a group of the most resolute men, among them the young principal of our school and aforementioned one-eyed brigadier, harnessed a pair of collective farm’s horses to a cart and went to the region’s center to greet the new German authorities. They told them, “There is no order in our village. We beg of you to come and establish the German order.” Through a translator, the German chief instructed them. “Go home, gather a meeting of all the villager’s and elect a village-elder. If you notice Soviet soldiers or guerillas, you should immediately inform us. Our soldiers will come to the village soon.”

The next day the whole population of the village came to the school for a meeting. The people behaved like at a holiday. The self-made leaders met the women at the entrance and told them, “The women don’t have a right to vote under German law, so you should stay outdoors.” The women were not offended, they waited patiently for the results of the election. The meeting didn’t last long. The one-eyed was unanimously elected a village-elder.

A couple of days later, at night, the Germans entered the village. Our family was asleep when a banging at the door awoke us. My mother opened the door. Two soldiers came in and demanded a lamp. Then they ordered her to fill it up with kerosene and went out. In the morning we realized that the Germans occupied the school that was located across the street from our house. They made a fire in all the furnaces using the students’ desks as firewood. Across the street, I saw how the village children were associating with the soldiers.

As became known afterwards, the German chief ordered the village-elder to come and demanded a report. He asked if there were communists in the village. And the answer was “There was one, but he ran away leaving his family here. And there is one Jewish family.” The German asked, “Do they perform communist propaganda?” The village elder said, “No, the woman works at the collective farm.” “In that case,” said the German, “they are not my concern. Special people will come in due time and take care of them.”

The reader may ask how I know all these details. The answer is simple: the manager of the village store, a good-looking young woman, immediately became a mistress of the German translator and she related many conversations with him.

As things turned out, we were fantastically lucky. The Germans left the village after a week or ten days (I don’t remember exactly), as quietly as they entered it. Only a day after their withdrawal the first subdivision of Soviet soldiers marched through the village in the direction of the region center. They were young men drafted from Siberia that hadn’t yet participated in the battles. The village-elder and the deserters were caught later and court-martialed. The school principal vanished leaving no trace. So, the special people didn’t come for our souls. We virtually played Russian roulette and won.

And what more can I say about my so-called friend Victor and his friendly mother? They didn’t blame us for remaining alive and not leaving them our belongings. In the spring Victor’s father came to take them home to Moscow. On the last night before their departure my mother sat behind her sewing machine helping Victor’s mother to repair their clothes and linen – without any self-interest.

Yakov Kupershmidt is a 70-year old Russian, who was a Professor of Engineering in his country. He has authored many text books in Russian, but this will be his first publication in English. He is an advanced ESOL student at the Framingham Adult ESL Program.