Behind me, the card game sparked many conversations. As usual, they talked of old times in Ukraine and throughout Europe, and the war and what followed.
Then my father mentioned something about me being born in 1947, in Germany, saying that he'd had to leave the hospital while my mother was in labor because he had to take an important exam for his doctorate and that his professor was not one to bend the rules.
He told them that he finished the test in half the allotted time and still managed to come ahead of the baby by nearly three hours; also that it was the least amount of time that he had spent on any test. Expecting to do really bad on the score it turned out to be his highest mark all semester. It had been a very good day for him.
Each of the other players also took turns at telling their stories. I was fascinated by some of the tales. That night I found out Aunt Helen was once a ballet dancer in Kiev.
I had often heard these kinds of stories late at night, conversations actually. But when I listened to them the moments came alive. I hardly ever had to ask to hear them. It was always around me and I had become accustomed to listening.
Most of the sad stories were from the war years, whose memory still swirled fresh in the hearts of the countless refugees who immigrated to America. Sometimes I would almost cry when I heard them. Still, I always felt better for having at least heard the tale. Perhaps because it allowed me to understand better the things that shaped the adults' lives, my parents' generation.
Although, I didn't realize it at the time but they were also telling me what the coming years of adulthood would feel like. And yeah, I was still too young to care about anything like that at the time. However, that night changed everything.
Suddenly, the tune of the conversation strummed heavily on higher chords. I heard Aunt Helen's voice crack its composure while saying "Ostap" her late husband's name, "I watched him die!" she burst: "I watched him die," she repeated, tailing off into tears.
My eyes opened wide, keenly alert, my thoughts were committing to her story. I'd never heard this told before. "What a waste, what a stupid, stupid waste," she lamented, less tearful in composure.
"We were crossing the railroad yards just outside of Lviv," Aunt Helen continued. "There were hundreds of us fleeing the Nazis. Dead bodies everywhere.
Just then, Ostap heard a child crying. He saw it laying on its back next to one of the tracks, its face distorted from fear and crying. Arms and legs flaying as if to tell God he didn't want to be there. Well, you know Ostap, he immediately rushed to its aid."
"About 10 feet from it he stopped and turned to look at me. He was holding his hand on the side of his head where the bullet had gone through. I could see the blood and fleshy fibers oozing out between his fingers. Then, he fell to the ground away from the baby....he just fell. I looked around, confused.
Then I saw him, a soldier lowering his rifle from its aim. He was leaning against an empty wooden boxcar, a half smoked cigarette hanging on his lower lip. At that instant I could only do one thing, I ran towards him swinging my suitcase even before I could reach him. I don't know what I would have done if he hadn't knocked me out with his rifle butt."
"It's a wonder he didn't shoot you as well," interrupted my mother.
"Yes, that's true, I suppose," agreed Aunt Helen, "but maybe I wished he had. When I came to, the yard was empty, except for the scattered bodies. My suitcase was gone, as were those which
Ostap had carried. The baby was also dead, shot in the head. I stayed in the yard until dark holding Ostap's bleeding head in my lap. When the Germans finally overtook the city they took me away."
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