Alexander Arsentievich Priadko was born in the Ukraine in 1926. His parents were farmers. Although Sasha was only six years old when those times fraught with misfortune began, he was able to keep everything, or at least almost everything, in mind. Late in the evening, a couple of unknown people entered the hut. They wanted father to answer for something or to admit having done something “wrong”. The mother’s voice could be heard from over the wooden bed, while she was moving the cradle with Little Vasia to and fro. Vasia was completely exhausted from crying, he was probably hungry or had dirtied himself, but mother was not in a good humour. Something stranged had obviously happened, something Sasha was yet unable to comprehend. Grandmother, the mother of Sasha’s father heaved a deep sigh, gathered up a couple of rags and a few things that might be necessary to carry along, and tied them into a bundle. Towards morning Dad’s horses wer harnassed to a two-wheel cart to take the Priadko family to the train station. It was the last time that the whole family sat together on this cart, their cart, but it was not the master of the horse who led the horses on the rein, and the horses were not steered by Arseniy Timofeyevich, either. The cows, too, were chased away from the farmstead. Two little calves, just one year old, did not want to leave the place at all. Resistance, however, was useless – they were chased away by lashes of the whip.
The mud hut and the green little garden faded into the distance. The thatched roof was visible between the green leaves of the trees for a long time. The acacias were in full blossom. The surrounding nature appeared to be peaceful and quiet. But the population was in a state of unrest and – hatred. The cart that carried away the Priadko family into uncertainty drove on and on. Liverworts, fields, village fences – everything was floating by the two women who sat there with tears in their eyes. They were not only united by their family ties, but also by their common grief and sadness. What else could they have taken along on this little cart, which was already stuffed with seven people? For whom and for which reason did they have to leave their house, furniture and livestock behind? Their native village, their place of work, everything they had got so accustomed to? The house in which Arseniy Timofeyevich’s father was born, Arseniy himself and his children Sasha, Nina, Sonia and Vasia. The beloved farmstead with the blossoming acacias finally disappeared in the distance. You can feel and hear that the station is not far away anymore. Good-bye, Mother Ukraine, good-bye, Father Dnepr, good-bye, dear fields, which fed all the descendants of the Priadkos, unable to give them the strength to escape such a misery. Life is so hard, so terribly hard.
In the 1930s our farmer was worried about one thing: collectivization frightened him. Why should he surrender a couple of horses and cows – for no reason at all? And how were they to go on themselves? How should they bring through all seven members of the family without cattle and horses? And here we are! They deported his family because of his obstinacy and his refusal to become a member of the kolkhoz.
They were reported to be taken to Siberia. They drew a deep breath and distinguished some unknown smell. It seemed as if a fire-breathing monster approached with a tremendous rumbling. Smoke came from its nostrils. For the first time in his life Priadko learned that this was a locomotive. Behind it – a long tail of brown boxes, a freight train, which was to transport the resettlers’ families away. They only vaguely remembered, how they were loaded onto the waggons. But Alexander Arsentievich Priadko still has a clear recollection of the terrible overcrowding, the stuffy air and all the hungry people. A terrible typhoid epidemic broke out. The family miraculously survived: when they loaded the cart, father had decided to take along a piece of bacon and some fine home-distilled vodka. Three times a day he used to pour a spoonful of this burnin, hot drink into the mouths of his family members – in the morning, at noon and in the evening. They remained unaffected by death.
Ack – ack – ack ... The waggon wheels were rattling over the railway junctions. No! I wanted to shout something at Sasha. No! The cart, the only place of refuge during the last hours of our stay on our native soil was creaking: no-o, no-o, no-o. As if it did not agree to the injustice the people were treated with. And the boy placed his confidence placed his confidence rather in the cart, than in this horrible monster that hurried along at an unbelievably high speed.
However, a rack waggon is merely a rack waggon, and the monster of time had started to commit its crimes. As I already mentioned, they were transported away in freight cars. There were no windows, there was no light, not even the smallest opening to get a breath of fresh air. It was stuffy, everywhere around the people were suffering ... and the many dead people, the dead people. Most of them were children. If our mother, seized with panic, had not taken along some more clothes, the boys „pods“ would certainly have rotten off. It was hard to become an eye-witness of how the adults were suffering, but it was even worse to see the children in such an agony. Nobody is able to describe the sufferings of children: little children! The world now seems to be quite small. A globe fits into a teacher’s palm. A mother can hold her child with her two arms. Maybe it (the child) is bigger than the globe? The child looks at you full of hope, full of hope – and you protect and defend it in this world. The world merely means a little globule to us; for a child a rom has the meaning of a huge, infinite space. If a child does not observe any smile on your faces – it will begin to feel alarmed. What did those children see in the eyes of their mothers? There mothers looked like helpless little children themselves. They did not know, where to expect help and protection from.
Everything sooner or later comes to an end. And so did this long, agonizing trip. The train stopped at Kamarchaga station, Mana district, region of Krasnoyarsk. First of all they deeply inhaled the fresh air and grandmother whispered: „Thank you, God, that we are alive!“ Not a single family of this transport was definitely unloaded. Carriages were already waiting for them right at the platform; the people immediately had to climb on the carriages – and allthis happened in total silence. And they silently drove off. The circumstances were so mysterious, so enigmatic and unexplainable. When would they finally get a clarification of fact?!
Arseniy Timofeyevich was almost 33 years old. He was a young man. Although completely exhausted, his hopes were not shattered and he was not yet broken by the situation. He curiously looked around at the fields, the woods. The further they were driving, the nearer came the taiga. When they approached the village of Shalo, mountains loomed up in the far distance, they were covered with coniderous woods. Sasha fixed his little eyes on these woods with an expression of surprise. Having passed Kiyay, rocks and cliffs appeared in front of the deportees’ eyes. The evening fell in, streaks of fog almost spread till the ground. The passengers sitting in the carriages in front were now unable to recognize the end of the trek and the last ones saw nothing but swathes of mist, either. There was mainly the creaking of the carriages and the shouts of the coachmen, who hurried along their horses, which were disturbing this depressing silence. Completely unexpectedly, a wonderful scenery appeared in front of the travellers’ eyes: a broad river. The raod winded its way along the bank, which was bounded by rocks and cliffs on the opposite side. Green islands seemed to float in the middle of the river, and it looked, as if the twigs of a black alder werte taking a bath in the quickly rushing along stream. On the opposite banks there were cliffs, as well. „The three sisters“ – the coachman said, who so far had not uttered a single word during the whole trip. – „And you are being taken to the settlement of Oreshnoe for eternal settlement. There is a timber industry enterprise. It is possible to live there“.
After the trek had arrived in Narva, they started to cross the Mana river. This was done in twos, since there was no space for more than two carriages. While waiting, the people had the possibility to look around and enjoy the sight of the wooden villages buildings anfd the river to their hearty content. After the whole trek had finally crossed the river, the coachmen pointed at the mountains by means of the whipstock and said: „Behind the rounded hilltop over there is situated the village of Oreshnoe“. – „Oh, that is not so far away anymore“, Arseniy exclaimed. But they drove on and on, from hill to hill, and it seemed to them as if the way was stretching endlessly. Finally they arrived. There were only a few barracks in the valley basin - closely packed, but they somehow looked rather comfortable. Step by step they started to build new barracks, while another group of men fell trees and pulled the trunks to the building sites.
The years went by. Daily life became a matter of habit. One day Arseniy even brought along a milk cow from the bazaar. And then, one night in March 1937, they suddenly knocked at the window. Father jumped out of his bed. He had been prepared for this situation to come. At that time, only few men went to bed undressed – they used to keep their outer garments on and would not even remove their felt boots. A series of arrests set in, but Arseniy did not abandon hope that they would not affect him; thus, he continued to work diligently, and, in fact, he was in good books with the authorities. But he was unable to escspe his own arrest. Where should he leave his aged mother and his four children under age? His wife would manage to support herself. They did not even permit him to say good-bye to the sleeping infants. These people were not touched at all by his wife’s tears and the crying of the children. He went away – and disappeared without leaving a trace.
In the summer there was another reverse of fortune: Nina died. Sasha had a job at that time. He had been working for the kolkhoz from the 10th year of his life. He harrowed, tossed and raked hay in order to help with the harvesting as hard as he could. The school year began, and so he went to school. His horny fingers were hardly able to hold the pen. The students had no exercise books. They used to write on newspaper, i.e. they would sew newspaper together and then write on it. It was neither the hard work that tired hime out, nor did all the privations make him grow up prematurely – it was rather the fact of being permanently confronted with all kinds of humiliations and offending words, such as „resettlers“ or „enemies of the people“.
As from 1942 Sasha went to fell trees. He worked in the same way as did all the adult men. Alexander Arsentyevich has two entries in his time book: the date when he commenced employment and the date when he retired. He is a work veteran. For 40 years he has been working for the forestry. And when adding the time of his working for the kolkhoz yet, his life work would probably cover the life work of two men. The last 15 years of his active life Priadko worked as a driver; he sat behind the steering wheel of the timber truck.
Sonia and Sasha grew up. They founded their own families. Alexander Arsentyevich is in possession of a car. The two sons dispose of their own means of transport, too, as well as a prospering farm garden, a house and a summer kitchen in the open. Alexander Arsentyevich falls back into silence for a while. Then he continuous in a low voice: „ My children and I now own 60 horse powers, the court is full of cattle, but nobody calls me a kulak, a large farmer. Yes, the rehabiliated Dad posthumously. Mama received a pension: 16 Rubels at first, later up to 18 Rubels. For the injustice done to our father we received a financial support of 3000 Rubels once. But can such a tragic fate be compensated by money? Who is able to wipe away all the loneliness, all the feeling of loss from his memory? All the privations, humiliations and persecutions? Which crimes did we commit to be found guilty by the greatest tyrant of all times?“
We keep silent. Then Alexander Arsentyevich continuous: „ I will also sign the list by which they are going to make a request to the government to erect a memorial for the victims of the Stalin era. And in case this project needs any financial support, I will not refuse to make a contribution to it – this is what I owe to my father!“
The old man is talking to me, while tears are welling up in his eyes. The old wound is still bleeding. Yes, indeed, an old wound has been opened – and I am aware of the pain myself.
663517, Mana district, village of Narva,
Kravchenko Street No. 15
Ludmila Andreyevna Gorelova