Krzemienice
The M.S.Z. (Ministry for Foreign
Affairs) was located in a college building. We found accommodation
in a white, single-storey building belonging to the Director of the
college, Stefan Czarnoski. The Czarnoski family were our relations
and, therefore, we had gone to them upon arrival. After the
unpleasant, two‑day journey, we had a good night's sleep between
clean sheets in comfortable beds.
Next morning I went to report to the
Ministry. Among several long, white buildings I found our offices.
The imposing thick walls, the deep window niches and long passages
with arched ceilings breathed of the Middle Ages. On the left side
were many empty halls and auditoria. Typewriters were placed on
school benches. Tired messengers, shuffling along, looked
uncomfortable in these different surroundings. Occasionally some
employees sauntered along with their hands full of documents.
I had trouble discovering what I was
expected to do, or even if I was required. Stamping up and down
stairs I at last found, in one of the classrooms, a rudimentary
nucleus of a personnel office. It was the secretary of the Personnel
Office, and her typewriter. A small, elderly lady with narrow, cold
eyes and a dry, dispassionate voice. She was not only the rudiment
of the Personnel Office, but rather its pillar. Other additions like
the Director or Head of the Department were merely bureaucratic
extras to her personality.
She greeted me coldly and, without
waiting, said, "Today you have no work as your department is not yet
organised. Please come tomorrow for instructions. You are free to
relax after the tedious journey," she added with something of a
smile.
I left with great pleasure. The weather
was perfect and the town unknown to me. I called for Marushka and we
plunged into the narrow, winding streets going towards the hill
Queen Bona.
At the foot of the hill sprawled the
beautiful small town. A narrow lane climbed a steep hill, formed
like a large mound. On top of the mound stood the ruins of the old
castle.
Standing high up between the ruins, it
seemed we could embrace with our eyes all Wolyn and Ukrainia. Only
somewhere far ahead beyond the blue horizon we lost the view of the
boundless farm fields, meadows and pastures, dotted with clumps of
bush. The township occupied a limey and rocky hillside below the
foot of "Bona" as if trying to climb upwards. The white college was
like an old manor with its massive walls. It was surrounded by small
white houses covered with vines, hiding between trees. Narrow,
winding streets wriggled between irregularly‑built houses on the
cliff of the hill. A rapid stream hollowed a deep bed through the
limey ground, undermining old alder wood and bent willows.
This was Krzemienice, town of old
legends, rampart of Wolyn's culture.
Those quiet, grass covered streets were
now swarming with strange people; visitors from the outside world.
This morning the local inhabitants were
probably amazed when looking through their windows. On the streets
passed luxury cars, Warsaw taxis and trucks from the city firms.
Hooting, they drove hordes of pedestrians from the streets, people
who were strangers to this town. Ladies in fancy hats and latest
model frocks were walking carefully and awkwardly on cobblestones
with men in beautifully tailored suits and smart hats.
An unusual bustle continued all day.
Embassies, legations and consulates were
arriving from foreign countries. Pressmen and correspondents from
foreign papers always followed the Corps Diplomatique, besides
ministers, senators and other dignitaries and their families and
friends.
At home we met new visitors: the Deputy
Minister with his wife, their maid, chauffeur, and a little dog on
long slim legs, plus a countless number of leather suitcases and
trunks. There were also three directors from our department and a
small, thin man with a very pleasant face who was the Minister of
Agriculture, Mr. Poniatowski. Because of the new arrivals, there was
trouble with accommodation, especially as madam required a salon and
at least two maids.
After tea our hostess, my cousin, asked
us to help cover the windows with heavy drapes. As this happy town
had so far not experienced an air raid, nobody had bothered.
In the salon, the Deputy Minister's wife
was reclining on the couch, talking affectionately to the terrier
who was dressed in a black coat. His collar had little bells, and
his eyes were big and tearful. She kindly permitted us to cover the
windows. She did not take much notice of our presence and tenderly
whispered in French to her terrier. Standing on the windowsill, I
glanced sidelong at her. She was a big woman of indeterminate age,
tall, fat, with thin dark hair.
There was a discreet knock at the door.
"Enter," she called, without changing
her position.
With a deep bow, a French correspondent
entered. Indicating the couch, she asked him to sit down. She spoke
to him in French, words which shattered us to the raw.
"Monsieur, I think the situation is more
than critical. We are leaving Poland, going to Paris, via Rumania. I
would advise you to do the same".
She stopped speaking as a few diplomats
arrived. As she was glancing at us impatiently, we left without
continuing our job.
Next day I again went to the Ministry
but nothing had changed, nothing was organised, and my attendance
was quite unnecessary. I went with Marushka to town to shop and to
send a wire to her parents, advising them that we were in a quiet,
small town and were all right. How naive we were, considering the
next developments.
The shops were all open and there were
crowds in the streets as it was a market day.
We were just crossing the street to go
to the market when, suddenly, like lightning from a clear sky,
German planes dived towards the market and the main street. The next
few moments were so weird and uncanny that I am unable to recollect
them clearly. The moment I saw the bombs there was already the
thunder of exploding bombs. The houses and trees were trembling and
the earth shook under our feet. Panic stricken horses with fragments
of broken carts rushed straight at us. I jerked Marushka and we both
dived under a tree. Boards, bricks and broken iron sheets were
falling on the street. Lifting my head, I saw in front of me, above
me, and all around me a cloud of dust and sand and whitish flakes
fluttering in the air. I shook my head; something must be wrong with
my eyes.
"Marushka, do you see it? Is it snow?"
"No, they are feathers!"
When the dust settled down a bit, the
sight was unbelievable. There was a cloud of feathers all over the
market. One bomb had fallen on a stall of goose feathers and the
explosion had lifted them high in the air, covering the sky. Broken
carts with the remains of human bodies and horses' bodies, carcasses
lay everywhere. What a sticky, indescribable mess. Debris from
broken buildings covered the footpath and the street. In the market
place, human heads lay scattered about between heads of cabbages.
Milk, cream and blood flowed together, producing a rusty colour in
the gutter. Near the dead owners were their dead horses, still in
harness. Some, with their torn bellies and bleeding from their
noses, were kicking helplessly. The wounded were calling for help
and groaning men were lying on the ground. Between them were hens
with their legs tied together, but still trying to fly. The moaning
of people, neighing of horses, grunting of pigs, cackling of fowls
were the cry of common pain and terror.
The bombers were already far away.
Perhaps the pilots were already reporting the "successful bombing of
enemy targets."
Near us sat an elderly woman in a linen
shirt. She was not moving, only breathing heavily. A narrow thread
of blood ran from the corner of her mouth. She was looking at us
with wide open eyes, full of tears.
"Are you hurt?" I asked, as I could not
see any injuries. She did not answer. I got up from under the tree
and went to her. The sight which greeted me made me feel sick and my
veins began pounding. All of her back, including her blouse, was
torn by shrapnel. The flesh was hanging in strips, exposing broken
ribs. I turned towards Marushka. She tried to get up but could not.
I ran to her. It was only a dislocated swollen ankle. It must have
happened when I jerked her under the tree.
From the nearby hospital, nursing staff
started arriving with stretchers. We lifted the injured woman gently
onto a stretcher. She was in shock. I helped Marushka to sit down on
some steps, asking her to wait for me. Taking the stretcher, I
helped carry the injured woman to the hospital. It was not easy to
carry her up the steep, narrow steps without jolting. On the first
floor, the entire hospital was located in one room.
Stretchers were arriving with injured.
The few patients were looking on in horror. Shortly there were no
beds left. The wounded were put on the floor, in the passages, and
even in the hospital kitchen. The cement floor became slippery from
coagulated blood. The wounded looked deathly pale. The jagged wounds
were bleeding profusely.
One young peasant woman, thinking I was
a doctor, grabbed my hands and, trying to kiss them, implored me to
help her husband. A twenty‑year‑old man was lying on the passage
floor ‑ his legs were missing.
The sight before my eyes was terrible
and shocking but what I saw in the next minute, in the dark end of
the passage, was beyond any of my wildest imaginings. At an ordinary
kitchen sink stood an old Jew with a long, grey beard. In one hand
he was holding his intestines which were falling out of his torn
abdomen. The water from the tap flowed over the steaming entrails
and, while rinsing off the blood, he was trying to push the slippery
bowels back into his stomach. He was standing quietly, without a
sound, his chest heaving and his face was covered with sweat.
I ran down and my shoes, wet from human
blood, left ugly marks on the steps.
The whole town was in turmoil. It
appeared that neither the college, nor any of the buildings occupied
by the government or foreign powers, had been damaged. The tally for
the enemy was the market square, shops on the main street, and some
houses in mid‑town. About forty people were killed on the spot and
many more wounded. Most of those wounded were farmers who came to
the market, Jews, whose shops were nearby and other civilians,
including some evacuees who happened to be nearby. One bomb fell on
a small drapery store. Nothing was left. The store, including the
owners, his family and buyers were pushed through to the basement ‑
all were killed. Amongst the rubble were left some coats, slacks and
torn bales of fabrics. Under the door of the next house was an
unexploded bomb. The dark, large oblong bomb with its shining brass
detonator was lying undamaged, full of explosive material. People
were looking with horror, shaking their heads and speaking about the
strange trick of fate. This bomb could have destroyed the house and
its people, who were looking out through the window, would have met
their death. Somehow fate had saved them ‑ and buried their
neighbours.
Soon foreign correspondents arrived and
members of the Diplomatic Corps, led by the Papal Nuncio. They came
to see with their own eyes the outcome of the terror raid. They saw
the market massacre. The press took photographs, the diplomats
handed in a joint protest to the hands of the Nuncio to be delivered
to ... The Pope. A diplomatic note calling for vengeance from Heaven
through the intervention of competent authority.
The raid made a great impression on the
people of this town and the neighbouring villages. The shops were
closed, the windows and doors hammered up with boards and the same
evening, in fear of future raids, the locals left their town,
looking for shelter in villages.
A siren was installed and observers were
posted on the mount "Bona". Even some anti‑aircraft units consisting
of a few youths were organised, equipped with long, old‑fashioned
French rifles. An order was issued to dig trenches, and a strong
reminder to secure blackouts. We became wise after the event.
At dawn the next morning when enemy
planes were approaching, we were given warning by a hand‑turned
siren. Our memory of yesterday still being quite fresh, we all
jumped out of bed pretty quickly. The first to come was the Minister
with his wife. He was in a nightshirt and trousers with hanging
braces and holding an attaché case. His wife wore a long dressing
gown, slippers and her hair in rollers. She was pressing the terrier
to her ample bosom. She was irritable and demanded insistently to be
led to the nearest shelter, but such did not exist. The same evening
she left the town taking with her the maid, the dog and masses of
luggage. She went in the direction of the Rumanian border. She was
one of the first rats to leave the sinking ship.
During the next few days we had many
alerts, being forced to interrupt tea three times to hurry to the
basement. Nothing new at the Ministry. I was still unemployed.
Marushka was unable to walk because of her swollen ankle. I went to
dig trenches in the college garden.
More and more evacuees, including
our boss, arrived in Krzemienice. The Minister for Foreign Affairs,
Mr. Beck, was dressed in the uniform of a Colonel of the
Polish Army.
There were rumours that he had been to
Moscow, asking for help against the Germans.
News from the Front was hazy and
contradictory. There were no papers from the capital city only a
small, single page ‑ a local newsletter giving general political
news. A lot of talk about help from Britain and France, about their
power, how they would soon attack Germany when their mobilisation
was complete. Where was the Front in Poland? Nobody knew and, if
they did know, they did not tell the community. We knew the
situation could not be good, especially as we had so many raids. The
Germans had full supremacy in the air. We had not seen the Polish
Air Force.
On the 13th September we were called to
the Ministry. We all expected to be employed, at last. To our
astonishment, we received three months salary as though our employer
were terminating our appointments.
Next morning when passing the Ministry I
saw great activity. In front of the building were buses and cars,
with employees hurrying, bringing their belongings. When I asked
where the Ministry was moving, I was told tersely, "To Romania."
Pushing through the crowds, I looked for the secretary of the
Personnel Office. She was still in the building, packing documents.
She advised me that the evacuation was to be towards Tarnopol and
from there to the Romanian border as the military situation was very
grave.
"You are coming too," she told me.
"The visas will be completed at the border. Get your belongings and
report here where the buses are leaving."
The sheep instinct took hold of me too.
Taking our luggage, Marushka and I joined the others. The first
buses were just leaving. Many people were still waiting. In the
crowd I spotted Lesman who was nervously rushing from group to group
asking for the next transport.
"When did you arrive?" I asked him.
"Probably at the same time as you," he replied. He was not eager to
talk. He looked pale and distracted, adjusting his glasses
nervously. But I did not give in.
"How come I have not seen you, either in
the train or here?" I continued.
"I came later by car. I was working here
in the Press section."
"You must be well informed. What is
happening? Why this hurry with evacuation?"
"Nothing good," he replied tersely,
without his usual elaboration. "The Germans have broken through our
lines in many places and are now pushing towards Lwow. I understand
there is now danger that they might cut us off from the Rumanian
border; therefore the hurry."
"All right, but what can we expect in
Rumania?"
"What to expect? In this critical moment
we have to save as many people as possible, organise the government
in exile and fight for Poland at the side of our allies, not here
but abroad. Do you understand? We must insist on speedy assistance
from them."
"Yes, but Poland is still fighting and
all the people cannot go, with their suitcases, to Rumania."
"Oh, Zygmunt, even now, in this dramatic
moment, you are unable to curb your caustic remarks. In this case I
mean of course the elite, the ... Oh, my bus .." he interrupted,
grabbed his case and, without even saying goodbye, ran to the bus.
The doors to the bus were crowded. Everyone wanted to get in
simultaneously. One man, standing on the steps of the bus and
pushing others away with his elbow, was shouting. "Gentlemen,
please, ladies first" and, allowing his wife aboard, he ducked into
the bus. Lesman was the next to dive in. Now everyone was trying
even harder to push through. We also tried half‑heartedly, but too
late. The overcrowded bus left.
We were the only ones left. Torn bits of
paper were flying around on the empty street. The building stood
empty, doors open. We sat down on the steps. Once again fate had
decided for us and we were resigned. To be honest ‑ who knows,
should another bus have arrived and we had been told to board, maybe
we would have done so. We too would have left our country, just like
the others. Were we any different? Probably not but deep down we had
some qualms. Instinctively, we did not want to leave our country.
Our actions were hampered, fate interfered. We stayed in Poland.
We started thinking ‑ what should we do now? Stay here and await
further developments or go home? Home was far away, but there were
our parents to be considered. After some deliberation, we decided to
go back to Wilno. This decision was made easier because, as far as
we knew, the way home did not cross the front.
Delaying no longer, we went to the
station. The streets were empty; only occasionally a car went by in
the direction of Tarnopol. In one of these cars we saw a well‑known
minister and also speaker of the senate whom I knew from Wilno as a
voivode (head of an administrative division). (Note: It was Mr.
Raczkiewicz, who later in London became President of the Polish
Government in exile). Most of our female students were in love with
him as no‑one could wear tails as well as he and his top hat sat
perfectly on his well‑shaped head. He was to the female students the
ideal government representative who, with assured elegance, could
even carry his mace beautifully.
The car carried him to an unknown
future. Who could tell ‑ perhaps to a new future of dignity and
honour.
Late in the evening, the train left
towards Rowno. We bought tickets through to Wilno, approximately 400
km away.