Simple Gymnasts

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I did NOT know number 2 😮😮👇

This is Catherine's testimony, recorded in 1987. She remained silent for 42 years after the trauma that occurred in Smolensk and the Ravensbrück camp. These are her words. My name is Ekaterina. Today is October 28, 1987. I'm sitting in the kitchen of my apartment, looking at an old tape recorder, and my hands are shaking. I am 71 years old. I was silent for 42 years.
For 42 years I carried this stone inside my chest, afraid that if I started talking, I would not be able to stop. Or, even worse, no one will believe what I say. But the time has come. The world is changing, our country is changing, and I feel like my life is coming to an end. I can't take this to my grave.
I have to leave my voice. This is not just my story. This is the cry of thousands of women whose names have been erased into ashes, whose voices have been drowned out by the barking of dogs and the roar of the hills. I speak for those who did not return. For those who returned but were never able to speak.
Before the sky turned black, I was an ordinary girl. I lived in a small village not far from Smolensk. I was only 20 years old when my life as I knew it ended forever. I remember the smell of apples in our garden. It was 1941, the last summer of my childhood. We lived simply but happily. My father worked at the railway station.
My mother taught children at school, and I dreamed of becoming a doctor. I believed that hands were given to man to heal, to bring warmth, not pain. I had a fiancé Sasha, Alexander. We were planning to get married in the fall, when the harvest was in. I still remember the warmth of his palm in my hand when we walked by the river.
He told me that we would build a house, that we would have three children. Sasha went to the front in the first days of the war. I never saw him again. All that was left of him was one letter: a triangle of yellowed paper that I kept close to my heart until even my clothes were taken from me. The war did not come to us immediately.
She crept up like a predatory beast. First there were reports on the radio, the anxious faces of parents, then the first bombings somewhere in the distance, and then they came, the Germans. It happened in the winter of 1942. The snow was white and deep, so pure that it hurt the eyes. But very soon it turned grey with ash and red with blood.
They entered the village on motorcycles and trucks. confident, loud, alien. I remember how they drove us out of our houses. Mother's scream. She tried to cover me with herself, to hide me in the cellar, but it was too late. An officer in a long grey coat pointed at me and my sister Anya. We were separated from the old people.
I remember my mother screaming as we were pushed into the truck. I saw how my father tried to break through to us and how the blow of the rifle butt knocked him down. This is the last memory I have of my parents. Father lying in the snow and mother reaching out to us . The truck pulled away and I watched as my house, my garden, my life faded away, turning into a tiny dot until they disappeared completely.
We were taken to the train station in Smolensk. There was a sea of ​​people, thousands, women, girls, teenagers. Fear smells like sweat and urine. It was there that I recognized this smell. They started to herd us, like cattle, into freight cars, red freight cars. They packed us in there so tightly that it was impossible to raise our arms.
The doors slammed shut and darkness fell. Inside, it smelled of old wood and horror. The train started moving and we rode into the unknown. We traveled for days and nights. I lost track of time. Maybe it's been 5 days, maybe a week. There were no windows in the carriage , only narrow cracks under the ceiling through which cold light occasionally penetrated . They didn't give us water.
It was the most terrible thirst. I saw women licking the frost from the metal bolts on the doors to somehow wet their lips. There was a woman named Olga Petrovna standing next to me . She was older, about forty years old. She was a music teacher from a neighboring town. Olga held my hand when it seemed to me that I was about to fall and be trampled.
Someone died in the corner of the carriage on the third day. The body simply sank down, but there was nowhere to fall because of the cramped space. And the dead girl continued to stand, supported by the living, swaying in time with the sound of the wheels. It was the first time I realized that death here was not a tragedy, but an everyday occurrence....read more 👇👇👇