Things had been going reasonably well for us and life in Norskaya was bearable, to a degree. We both worked; Shmuel in the clothing factory and I as a freelance photographer. The only unpleasantness was Shmuel's supervisor who, for some reason neither of us could understand, had taken a deep dislike to him. Eventually, an opportunity to rid himself of this annoying subordinate presented itself to this supervisor. The authorities had requested a dozen unskilled workers or those not engaged in essential tasks, to be made available for transportation to Moscow. Their mission was to build anti-tank ditches for the defense of the city. Since my husband qualified in both exempt categories, we were stunned when he was included on the list.

On the day of departure, Shmuel and I stood at the railway station with a mass of other conscripts. Red Army sentries guarded all the entrances, allowing only those making the journey to enter the area. Farewells were sadly said at the outer gates; loved ones were quickly lost in the throng.

As the tearful, wailing crowd milled around the courtyard, I took my first chance of the day. While Nina and I watched our beloved father and husband disappear into the crowd, I noticed one of the sentries leave his post to investigate a disturbance. I immediately picked up my daughter and darted through the now unguarded gate towards Shmuel, just in time to see him board the train. Fortunately, none of the patrolling soldiers thought to challenge a woman with a child in her arms where she obviously had no business to be. Shmuel, however, was startled. Afraid that both of us might find ourselves on a long, uncomfortable, even dangerous, journey to Moscow, he begged us to leave. Suddenly, it was clear to me that his chances of survival were unbelievably slim. Moscow was already surrounded, and even if, by some miracle, the train did get through, he would be exposed, digging ditches in the open. If he left on that train my daughter would never see her father again. But how could I get him off?

As if in answer to my dilemma, an elderly woman arrived and went immediately over to the soldier guarding the door of the carriage to which Shmuel had been assigned. After a brief conversation, she entered, then emerged with a young girl in tow. The poor child was obviously ill and coughing as if her last hour had come. Watching this, an idea had come to me and as the pair passed by I turned and asked,

"Excuse me, Babushka ("Nanna"). How is it that you were allowed to take the young lady from the train?"

"Ah, as you can see, she should be home in bed. She is sick. She would never survive the trip, much less the hard labour."

"Of course. But how did you get permission to remove her?"

"I have a certificate from her doctor. When I showed it to the mayor, he released her from the squad."

The mayor, of course, was responsible for ensuring that the shipment was complete. He alone could free any draftee. But in this maelstrom of human misery, where was he?

"He is over there, by the ticket office," the old one advised.

I turned and saw a well-dressed, solidly built man talking to an officer. Another idea quickly embedded itself in my mind and I knew exactly what had to be done. Amidst all the noise, the final order came for those bound for Moscow to board.

Shmuel had heard none of this discussion. He was too busy saying goodbye to the daughter he might never see again. In those uncertain times, any journey could end in disaster and that threat underlined every goodbye. Consequently, he was caught completely unaware as I jerked him from the doorway a second before the transport moved off. He stood there for a moment uncomprehending, then turned to me, ashen-faced and asked,

"What have you done? This is desertion. How could you? They will shoot me."

"Perhaps," I answered, breathless from the realization that the die, once cast, could not be retrieved, "but on that train your fate would have been sealed. Better to risk possible death here than certain death there."

Did I really believe this? To this day I swear that I do not know. However, of those we knew who made that journey, we never heard from again.

Taking Nina by the hand, I ushered her father toward the impressive welldressed civilian who now stood alone at the ticket box, watching the retreating train. As he saw us approach, his face darkened.

"Did you miss your transport? That is a very serious offence. What do you intend to do about it?"

Shmuel was obviously still in shock so I answered.

"Sir, he did not miss it. He was in plenty of time. In fact, he was aboard despite advice from his doctor that he applies for exemption. As your worship can see, he is so ill that he is not strong enough to survive the experience. He was aboard but I removed him. Unfortunately, there was no time to seek your permission first."

"I see. Then you have a certificate from his doctor, attesting to all this."

"Of course. But in all the confusion, him wanting to go and me begging him not to and the child crying, I forgot to bring it. It is still at home."

"Papers please," demanded the mayor, who after thoroughly inspecting the documents, handed them back.

"Tomorrow, you may present the medical certificate to me in my office, and no more will be said. If not, you will have a visit from the police. And you, sir, are a fortunate man to have such a quick-thinking wife. Of course, tomorrow you will return to work as usual."

The next day the supervisor at the factory almost had an apoplexy.

"A deserter, are you, you little rat. We'll see what the KGB say about that. Anyway, there is no work for you here. And no pay."

Shmuel returned home as I was preparing to visit the doctor. I told him we could cross this new bridge when we came to it. Now the most urgent task was to win his legal exemption from the call-up. The doctor produced the necessary certificate without argument. Anyone who knew Shmuel was well aware that physical robustness was not his forte. Armed with this vital piece of paper, I quickly walked to the local transport office. From here a truck left every morning and afternoon for town, carrying workers for a clothing factory. Although I was not authorised to travel on this truck, the driver knew me as I often came to see my husband off. In return for a bottle of vodka, he agreed to take me aboard and bring me back.

At the town hall, a sentry barred my path. When I announced that I had an appointment to see the mayor, the guard laughed.

"What possible business could such as you have with the mayor?" he sneered.

"That is for him and me to know, not for such as you," I shot back.

No doubt taken aback by such audacity, he demanded my papers and went to the phone. Shortly after, he returned, handed me my documents and jerked his thumb towards the door.

The mayor received me cordially, inspected the certificate, and then called an official, instructing him to make out the exemption form. I then explained to him the morning's events at Shmuel's work. It was difficult, I explained, to live in fear of a man who held so much power and was not afraid to abuse it. After all, Shmuel had qualified for initial exemption from the assignment on two counts, but still found himself on the list. Maybe, I hinted, it was because we were unable to buy a more favourable treatment.

" Lady, go home. You have achieved what you set out to achieve. We live in difficult times. Unless you can satisfactorily prove to the police and myself that this supervisor is in fact taking bribes, I suggest that you now return home, advise your husband to report for work in the morning with this authorisation and I doubt that there will be any further problems."

With that, he ushered me to the door and shook my hand.