Last night, I watched the film Dr Zhivago. In one scene, the hero risks prison, or worse, by tearing down a fence to provide fuel for his stove, to feed and warm his ailing son. The poignancy of this situation hit very close to home, as I had myself experienced exactly the same circumstance in a tiny Russian village in the winter of 1942.

The small town of Norskoye, about twelve kilometres from Jaroslavl, the largest town in the district. With the outbreak of hostilities, the more experienced doctors were required to serve the Motherland at the front. Outback communities, if they were lucky, had to make do with recent graduates yet to be called up, or youngsters still in training or even nurses. Our community had not hit the jackpot in this regard.

Nina was about seven and we lived in a commune type situation. At that time it was not a romantic alternative lifestyle but simply the only possible arrangement. Each family unit had one, or at the most two, private rooms, with the living areas being shared. In this environment you can imagine, that every sniffle and sneeze was also shared.

Winter had been particularly bitter that year. Try to imagine if you can, living in an apartment building whose walls were unlined and the only covering that prevented the cracks from opening onto the outside world was a layer of ice. Imagine temperatures hovering around minus twelve degrees Celsius, with the only heating a small wood stove. How much worse, then, when that stove sat cold and unused because there was no wood available. It was the practice at that time for a ration of firewood to be supplied to the workers at the start of, and again halfway through winter. To be sure, it was not a generous quantity, since the workers were expected to spend a minimum of time at home. Daytime cooking was considered an unnecessary activity as hot meals were provided at the workplace and for the children at school. Similarly, those whose responsibility it was to make this allocation were smart enough to know that, regardless of the freezing weather, spring was not winter and therefore no more firewood would be allocated for nine months.

It was under these conditions that I heard my Nina awaken one morning and call out,

"Mummy, Mummy, where are you? I cannot see you."

"I am here, darling, in the room with you. Have you had a bad dream?"

"Mummy, I can hear you, but I can't see you. I can't see anything. I can't open my eyes."

"Now, Ninotchka, that is not funny. Of course you can open your eyes if you are awake."

I tried to sound confident but alarm bells were starting to sound, as Nina's voice became panic stricken.

"I can't, I really can't. Is this what it is like to be blind? I don't want to be blind. Help me, Mummy."

By now, Nina was becoming hysterical while I very quickly changed from a doubting mother to an anxious one. The bell ringing in my mind was deafening. It was not like her to play pranks. I had known blind people, of course, but they all had their sightless eyes wide open. This was beyond my experience. I took her hand, hoping that she would not recognise the emerging hysteria that probably edged my voice.

"Don't worry, darling. We will call the doctor and she will give you something to make it better. It will be all right, you'll see."

Hopefully, I thought, the words will not sound as hollow to my seven-year-old as they did to me. The 'doctor' was duly summoned, and gave Nina as thorough an examination as she could. I watched the doctor's face throughout, sensing that she had no idea of what the to do. After about five minutes, all that had been ascertained was that Nina was certainly running a temperature.

"Now listen here, young lady," the doctor boomed, "enough of these tantrums. Your mother is very worried, your doctor is very worried, for all I know Josef Stalin is very worried. Once and for all, open your eyes. It doesn't pay to worry Comrade Stalin."

Nina lay quietly, eyes still shut tightly. Although she cringed, she did not cry.

"I would not worry Comrade Stalin if I could help it," she said, with all the dignity of a child falsely accused.

"No, I am sure you would not," admitted the doctor in a rather defeated voice and motioned me out of the room.

"I am sorry. This is quite beyond my experience, but perhaps I can make a suggestion. There is a senior doctor at the clinic, on leave from the army. Or at least she was. She is due to go back today. Maybe if you hurry you will still catch her. I would come with you, but I have more calls to make. Good luck".

"Ninotchka, try to sleep. I have to see the other doctor. I'll be back soon."

Closing the door behind me, I trudged through the snow to the clinic. I remember thinking that not even in the depths of winter had there been such a cold unfriendly day. Arriving at the clinic, I quickly found the senior doctor. Looking quite imposing in her Red Army uniform, she drew herself up to her full height when I approached (which was not much more than my five foot nothing). I explained the situation to her and begged her to come and see my daughter but she was shook her head.

"I am sorry, my orders are to report back to my unit today. I must leave in an hour and have no time to go on calls. If the resident doctor cannot help you, there is probably nothing I could do anyway."

I did not know what her rank was but she obviously an officer. Surely then her skills would far exceed those of the girl who had attended Nina. I knew I had to bring her to my child's bedside. What mother would do less ?

"Comrade Doctor, I realize that you have far more important things on your mind than a young girl who cannot open her eyes. Of course your attendance at the front makes the difference between life and death for our brave young men. My daughter's plight must seem insignificant in that context. But please understand, as a mother, how important it is to me. My husband is in the army. He may or may not be alive. I have already lost another child. She is all I have left. Please have pity on such a wretched soul, Comrade Doctor. After all, you still have time before your train leaves."

I can understand that someone constantly exposed to the carnage and senselessness of war, as this doctor was, would have to deliberately harden their heart if they were to survive with their sanity intact. I was counting on the fact that once a mother, always a mother. And so it proved. We left the clinic together in a one-horse sleigh. She swiftly examined Nina, then came over to me and laid a hand on my shoulder.

"Well, Comrade Mother, I have good news for you. It is only measles. It will pass and your daughter will be as good as new. But she must be made warm at once. This cold has trapped the measles in her eyes, unable to break out. Unless they do, she could die or at least be left permanently blind. To avoid this, the room must be heated. At once. Immediately."

In the sub-zero temperature, I felt a chill strike deep in my soul. Measles was not a disease to be taken lightly, in those days. I had already lost one child, possibly to this very disease, and now the other was at serious risk. Serious, because how could I heat a room without fuel ?

"I wish I could help you, but I cannot provide you with firewood. Maybe the government agent can authorise extra wood for you. I will give you a certificate, but remember, the sooner the measles are able to break out, the less damage they will do."

I thanked her and went immediately to the Government offices, only to be informed that no firewood was available just then. However, due to the special circumstances, it could be ordered for me and would arrive within two weeks. With a heavy heart I hurried back home. Two weeks! It might as well be two years. It would certainly be too late.

On my way home, I noticed that behind the community centre were two storage sheds, roughly constructed from planks. Inside, were various items of communal recreation such as chess sets and sporting equipment. It occurred to me that these planks could save the life of a little girl and this was surely a far more noble purpose than keeping snow off a few footballs.

Although I fully realized the enormity of this undertaking, how could I hesitate? I went home and returned with an axe. It was cold, dark and not a soul was abroad, and soon the contents of the shed were safely stacked in a corner of our room and a fire was blazing in our stove.

I sat in the glow of the illegal fire, contemplating the possible consequences of my actions. Pavel, the community centre secretary, was a good friend due to a shared interest in art, photography and Esperanto. To do this behind his back troubled me far more than the prospect of impending punishment. Naturally, this did not enter the equation where my little girl's life was concerned. But how was I to confess to my friend the betrayal of his trust?

By the time the wood from both sheds had been consumed, daylight was starting to steal over the village. I approached Nina's bed and saw that her face was covered in the characteristic measle spots. As I bent over to examine her body for these same spots, she awoke.

"Mummy, I can see you. I can see you. It is so hot in here."

How does a mother hold back tears of joy when a miracle is realized ?

Now, however, it was time to tackle the other dreadful task. Already I could hear the crowd gathering at the scene of the destruction I had wrought the previous night. It would surely not be long before the perpetrator was identified. I owed it to Pavel to confess of my own free will. Who knows, it might also help lessen the price I would have to pay.

Pavel greeted me as a friend, but soon recognised that this was not a social visit.

"Fania, something is on your mind. You have come to me for help. Tell me, what is it? Has something happened to Shmuel? Or to Ninotchka? What do you need from me? You only have to ask."

His helpful attitude only made me feel more guilty.

"Pavel, I know you would always help if you could. I am fortunate to have such a good friend. However I have come not for help, but to confess."

I told him the whole story, from beginning to end. To say that he was at a loss for words - probably for the first time since I had known him - would be a classic understatement. Finally he found his voice.

"Fania, no mother would have done less. Give me the doctor's letter and I will see what I can do. The equipment is safe, you say? Well, that will count in your favour. The sheds? They were barely adequate and are no loss. We'll rebuild bigger and better ones. But for heaven's sake, next time come to me first before doing such a thing. For now, leave it to me. I will see what I can do."

Obviously, he was able to do a great deal, for the matter was not brought to trial, or even investigated by the authorities. As Pavel had foreseen, new sheds were constructed. My greatest reward was that Nina suffered no ill effects from the episode.

We remained in Norskaya until a new textile factory had been built in Jaroslavl and Shmuel was transferred there. We all moved there in the winter of 1943. Life in Jaroslavl was hard but we managed to survive from the little work I did in the photographic laboratory and Shmuel's work as a tailor in the factory.

Alexander was born in February 1943.