Sherzod Artikov
About the author
Sherzod Artikov was born in 1985 year in Marghilan city of
Uzbekistan. He graduated from Ferghana Polytechnic institute in 2005 year.
His works are more often published in the republican inside presses. He mainly
writes stories and essays. His first book “ The Autumn’s symphony”was published
in 2020 year. He is one of the winners of the national literary contest “My
Pearl region” in the direction of prose. He was published in such Russian and
Ukraine network magazines as “Camerton”, “Topos”, “Autograph”.
Besides, his stories were published in the literary magazines and websites of
Kazahstan , USA, Serbia, Montenegro,
Turkey, Bangladesh, Pakistan, Egypt, Slovenia, Germany,
Greece, China, Peru, Saudi Arabia, Mexico, Argentine, Spain, Italy, Bolivia,
Costa Rica, Romania and India.
THE SPRING DAY
The reason for my three-year-old son's caprice was that there was no hot
bread on the morning table. My attempts to calm the baby were in vain: he
protested even more, and his whining grew into a loud cry. Then he began
throwing pieces of bread on the table, which he was offered.
- Get that
stubborn man out of my sight! - at one moment shouted angrily my father, who
had been watching us in silence, frowning his eyebrows.
Not expecting such
a reaction from my father, I froze for a moment. Then, without paying attention
to me, I began to put pieces of cake in one pile and in turn kissed and brought
them to the forehead.
- Take your son and leave the room! Now! - now
my dad collected crumbs of bread from the table in the palm of his hand.
The little one, who
had never seen grandfather so formidable before, cried out completely. And
indeed, my father was always discreet and courteous. I took my son into my arms
and headed for the door.
From an offense and anger I started shaking,
and already in doors I said:
- Daddy, he is
still a child. Quite small... Think about it, I was naughty. And so sometimes
it is possible to get out of the house to see you, and you...
The father kept
silent, instead he brought bread crumbs to his mouth and swallowed them, drinking
tea at the end.
With displeasure I
went to another room, where I hugged a pillow and cried bitterly. And so I lay
until my mother, brother and sister-in-law came to call me for lunch. No matter
how much they begged and begged, I was adamant. Hugging my son, without saying
a word, I looked somewhere far away. When the child fell asleep, my father
appeared at the door. He held a plate with food in one hand and a cake in the
other.
- Daughter, you
have to eat on time, or you will ruin your stomach.
Having said that,
he laid his handkerchief on the floor and carefully put bread and food.
- And then you may
have a stomach ulcer. You know, there is no worse disease than this. It can be
very painful.
I noticed how his
strong hands, entangled with bloated veins, trembled. Deep wrinkles made his
face look even more beautiful. For a moment, my father shifted his tired look to
me. Seeing my determined mood, he took a deep breath and sat down in a chair in
the corner of the room.
- It's Sunday - he
said sadly and looked towards the flowering apricot tree, and, in my opinion,
revived a little. - It's a spring Sunday! Spring has come! Warm days have come,
the tree has begun to blossom. April in the yard. Mother Nature will unfold in
all its glory. The charming smell of spring fills every cell of our bodies...
And then he rested
his one hand on the window sill, the second opened the window sash. And I still
sat silently and motionlessly, demonstrating my resentment. I stroked the
fluffy hair of my sleeping son in order not to look at my father.
- And during the
war, spring was the same - my father continued, thoughtfully wiping his palms.
- Spring awakening
of nature blunted the horror of the war, helped to survive, to forget the
reality, to endure what was happening around. At such moments shots from a
happy childhood came up: here I am among my beloved parents, my sister, who was
destined to live only four years. I can clearly see my father's intelligent
face, kind mother with her beautiful black scythe. But a hail of bullets and
projectiles, shattering us, a heavy landing of caterpillars, shrill squeals of
flying airplanes brought me back to reality.
And then I wanted
to run out of the trench and shout loudly:
- Why do we spill
each other's blood? Why does this happen?
A bitter lump in
my throat was choking me all the time trying to get out with a loud scream. At
the same time, I could not express my thoughts, ask questions that tormented
me. The realization that you are shooting at a completely alien person who has
not caused you anything bad was painful and tormenting.
At such moments
German guys – Karl, Sebastian, Paul – stood before my eyes at one side, and I
with my comrades on the other. Why do we kill each other? Because before the
war I lived in Margilan, and they lived in Munich or Dresden. There was no end
to my thinking...
Daddy first
started talking about the war. And before, we talked to him very often on
different topics, but he always tried to avoid this one. Papa got a family,
children very late in life. When I was born, he was over fifty years old, so my
brother and I became a light in the window: he literally trembled at us,
cherished in every way.
On warm spring and
summer evenings after work, Daddy used to put us on his bike and ride around
the city. Then we would sit on a bench
in front of the fountain and enjoy our favorite chocolate ice cream. And then
Daddy told us interesting stories from his life, and even then not a word about
the war. When my brother or I were interested in his military exploits, he
immediately changed the topic.
- ...In Ukraine,
not far from Lviv, our company was captured. On the train on the way to Poland,
I did not leave the painful reflections and thoughts. We were taken to the
outskirts of Krakow to the Auschwitz concentration camp – the most terrible and
scary place in the world. The Germans called it Auschwitz, the local population
– “death camp”.
The camp was
divided into three settlements. Together with other prisoners, I was taken to
the second ward. More and more prisoners entered the camp every day and were
divided into four groups by the Germans. The first group included all those who
were found unfit for work: first of all the sick, the deep old, the disabled,
children, elderly women and men, who also arrived in bad health, of medium
height or weak physique. Poor people immediately went to the gas chambers,
where they found a terrible, painful death. Then their bodies were burned in
crematoriums. In the second group, healthy, strong prisoners were selected for
the hardest slave labor in the industrial enterprises around the concentration
camp. The third group included twins, dwarves, people with unnatural physical
characteristics, who then went to various medical experiments with the doctors
of the Third Reich. The fourth group, mostly beautiful women, were selected for
personal use by the Germans as servants or given over to the laundries and
canteens of military units.
As part of the
second group, I was sent to work in heavy industry, which was half an hour from
the concentration camp. Spare parts for tanks were produced at the factory, so
the work was extremely heavy and harmful. The premises were so stuffy that by
the middle of the day the prisoners became incapacitated. All day long, like
slaves, we had to listen to the severe insults of the German guards and
tolerate their whipping. We were fed with broth of potato peel and stale black
bread.
In the evening, on
the way to the barracks, many impoverished prisoners were lying down with
fatigue, and then the annoyed Germans simply shot them. Someone gathered all
courage and strength and reached the brick buildings, but on the way up to the next
floor he lost consciousness. He also followed his comrades to the other world.
We worked even on
Sundays. Here, life and death went hand in hand. When machines failed or were
to be repaired, we, the prisoners, were forced to have a day off, which was in
the spring and summer months. On such days, we were taken to a large square
surrounded by a wire fence and kept under the open sky, be it rain, hail, or
the unbearable heat.
In our part of the
camp there were four gas chambers and as many crematoriums. On weekends, we
often watched the prisoners being led into these cells. Among them, we could
see very young ones. Everyone knew that after some time they would be burned
alive. While our clouded consciousnesses were trying to digest the situation, a
monstrous smell was coming out of the crematorium chimneys, from which we were
all turned away. And there were more and more ashes of the dead near the
crematorium, and they eventually turned into
a whole mountain. Prisoners brought to
work in crematoriums, one after another, took into their cars what was left of
the poor people. It is painfully bitter to realize that only recently they were
alive and steadfast in their imminent death.
Once, if I am not
mistaken, in April of 1944, on another day off we were dragged to the site. The
prisoners, exhausted by hunger and difficult conditions, resembled living
corpses: they gathered in one place with difficulty while moving. The prisoners
were seized by fear, because it was Easter. Everyone knew that on the festive
days, the Germans entertained themselves in every way, mocking the prisoners.
For example, they
organized running competitions: the first one who reached the finish line
remained alive, and the other three were immediately waiting to die from a hail
of bullets. If they wanted to listen to the song, they ordered several
prisoners to stand in formation along the wire fence. One acted as a soloist,
others sang with the choir. Woe performers were forced to sing songs praising
the Nazis. The worst thing was when the prisoners were forced to run back and
forth with their right hand raised, with a loud cry “Heil Hitler!”, which gave
them a great pleasure. Especially this “entertainment game” was widely used
when Jews were led into gas chambers. The prisoners, raising their right hands
high without taking a breath, had to greet the leader of the Nazis and escort
the doomed into the arms of death. If someone did not do it properly, he would
follow the Jews to the gas chamber.
But this time the
guards seemed serious. There was no trace of the festive mood, and in the faces
of these brutal guards unbridled vigilance and caution were reflected. It also
turned out to be suspicious that the commandant himself was carrying out the
inspection. The SS men, with automatic rifles in their hands, stood humbly
beside the wire fence. From afar, a black car appeared. At the sound of the
approaching vehicle, the commandant and his assistants ran out of his block and
lined up in a row.
The car stopped
right in front of us. Because of the rain that did not stop all night, it was
covered with mud and clay.
- Heil Hitler! -
the commandant and soldiers greeted the guest in one voice.
The military
official greeted everyone and began to look around. He was tired and looking sadly
at the ash mountain near the crematorium, at the gray and horrible barracks.
Then, he approached the wire fence and began to watch the prisoners.
He was a
broad-shouldered, statuesque man of forty-five to fifty years old.
Accidentally, his gaze fell on my side and he called me to his place with
gestures. Here, an interpreter approached the chief.
- Are you Jewish?
- the officer asked, looking at me from head to toe.
The young
interpreter translated every word he said.
- No, an Uzbek...
- I answered without raising my head.
- Do you see the
car? - he pointed at his car.
- Yes, I did...
- In half an hour
you have to clean the car. The time has been going by...
The first time I
did not hear his instructions, only after the second explanation I nodded my
head as a sign of consent.
The driver of the
car and one SS man brought a bucket of water, a rag, and I settled down to
work.
For the first time
in my life, I stood beside such a progress of technique, watched it with my own
eyes and touched with my hands. Before that, I only looked at them in photo
cards. My father had a well-known caravanserai in the district. There I had to
meet a Kokand arba and phaetons of Russian officers. During the
collectivization, it was taken away from my father and then I never saw
anything like this again. And here in front of me is a real car – black, shiny,
with a soft seat and a lot of devices. Behind the body I could see the name
“Mercedes”.
Despite the
exhausted strength and fainting, I wiped the car shiny. Having finished my
work, I returned to the ranks of prisoners. I sat down on the ground and leaned
on a wire fence, and breathed. The chief, accompanied by the commandant, left
the building and started checking my work. He circled the car, walked around
the body with his index finger and was satisfied. Then he shouted something out
to the commandant, who in turn gave instructions to the soldier standing
nearby.
Meanwhile, the
chief, leaning against the body of the car, smoked. Soon, a soldier appeared,
holding a whole plate of white fresh bread. The chief together with him
approached the fence and called me. When I came to him, he patted me on my bony
shoulder and said that the contents of the plate were now mine. There were
slices of white bread in the saucer, the smell of which made my heart beat
faster and I almost lost consciousness. After hugging the food, I hurried back.
Seeing five dozen eyes, I felt uncomfortable. At that moment I wanted to close
my eyes and eat delicious bread, but my conscience did not allow me to act
selfishly.
- Take, Umar! - I
first approached my Tashkent friend. He did not immediately dare to stretch out
his hand, but after the second time I offered the bread to him, he broke off a
piece and put it in his mouth. And he returned the remaining half on the
saucer.
- Look, what
bread! - I said when I approached a young boy from Tajikistan. - Naufal, try
it.
He also took only
half of the slice. The rest of the prisoners did the same. The last slice was
given to a Kazakh comrade.
When I returned an
empty plate to the soldier, the chief came to me:
- Are you crazy? -
he said nervously. - It was a reward for your clean work. Instead of satisfying
hunger yourself, you gave everything to the last crumb to others. Why did you
do this?
Before my eyes,
like a film, flashed a young wife of Umar Islambekov, who had children before
our captivity, the old mother of Naufal, Niyazov’s father, who lost one leg,
and many others.
- Why did you do
this? - he repeated his question.
- Because in the
Homeland their native, favorite people are waiting for them... And nobody is
waiting for me... - my voice trembled.
Having heard my
answer, the officer took a deep breath. And then I looked into his eyes. In his
tired look, I could see something else, human. For a moment he thought, then
threw a cigarette and looked around. With sorrow, he looked at the crematorium,
at the ashes mountain, and said: “Got vergib uns, wir sind alle Geschöpfe”.
After giving
instructions to the commandant, he headed for the car. On the way he looked in
my direction and whispered something to the interpreter. When the black car
disappeared from view, the SS man led me, on the instructions of the interpreter,
I did not know where. At these moments, as if feeling guilty in front of me, my
friends pressed harder and harder against the wire fence. Their eyes full of
pity and despair accompanied me towards the imminent death.
- Islambekov,
Chariev, Niyazov ... My friends, do not remember me wistfully ...
As we walked, my
whole life flashed before my eyes. Mom, dad, sister... Our house... The garden
with the duck trees...
But the thought
that there was no one to mourn me helped to accept death. On the way,
everything whispered a prayer that I learned as a child. But somehow the soldier
took me to the dining room. I followed him silently, then he ordered me to sit
down at the table. Very soon, the cook brought food on the tray: a few slices
of white bread, steak and apricot juice.
While I was
digesting what was happening, the interpreter was sitting in front of me.
- The Brigadeführer
ordered me to feed you. That you sit, eat...
With trembling
hands I lifted a spoon. The translator, having taken out a notebook from his
pocket, began to consider a small photo of some woman.
- Tasty bread? -
he asked with a smile.
In response, I
nodded my head. With shaking lips, I broke the bread and started to eat meat.
Immediately, I felt a burst of energy.
- Do not be shy about
it. Eat it, you're welcome – it is already lunch time.
And your friends
will soon be fed. From today on, you will be properly fed. Instead of boiled
potato peel, you will eat potatoes in uniform. This is an order of the
Brigadeführer.
Having put the
spoon on the dish, I shifted my astonished gaze to it for a moment. He, not
paying attention to this, cheerfully asked:
- What is your
name?
For the first time,
I could see the translator so close. He was the same age as me, about
twenty-five years old. He was a nice, kind guy.
- My name is Odil
- I answered.
- And me –
Richard. I taught Russian at the Berlin University. Unfortunately, I was not
able to finish it. In 1938, I was drafted into the army and remained there in
the war.
Richard was still
with me for a little while, got up and headed for the door. Turning back, he
looked at me, then at the still life hanging on the wall.
- Very soon your
troops will reach these places as well. There is not much left ... It will be
over soon.
Nine months later,
at the end of January 1945, a Soviet army liberated the Auschwitz concentration
camp. Umar Islambekov did not see the day, shortly before he died of typhoid.
But he was very young, he married at the age of 18 and left for the front at
19. Naufal hanged himself in the deep autumn. And how many of my friends and
comrades could not withstand the harsh life of a concentration camp, and this
terrible place was their last refuge. Only me, Niyazov and a few more managed
to survive in the death camp.
...Many years have
passed since then, but those days are still alive in my memory. Especially on
such spring days I remember that magical Sunday of 1944, the story of white
bread, when those happy faces of the prisoners who tasted a piece of the most
delicious delicacy stand before my eyes. I remember my enemies – Brigadier and
interpreter Richard, who in spite of everything, showed mercy and compassion.
Perhaps among them were the same ones, who did not find answers to many
questions that tormented them. And seeing so much blood, death and conscience
around them, they still woke up in their stale souls. This explains the action
of that officer.
Daddy was silent.
Finally, I got up and went to the window. The room became cool, so I shut the
window. Standing there for a while, I got closer to my father. I wanted to say
something to him. He was looking somewhere far away, his hands clinging to the
handle of the chair were shaking.
- Daddy, forgive
me... - I rushed into his arms.
I cried, Daddy
cried too.
- You know... you
know, my daughter... every piece of bread, every little one means a lot to me.
I still want to share my bread with them...
April, 2020.
Margilan
*Got vergib uns,
wir sind alle Geschöpfe – God have mercy on us, animals that have lost their
human form.
**Brigadeführer –
a special rank of senior officials of the SS, corresponding to the army rank of
major general.
