Occupation
13th
May, 1941.
Dear Friend,
I am a commander of the Red Army House, a recreation club in
Kaunas. Knowing my options, you will not suspect me of
opportunism. But I do know that you will hold the fact that I
accepted this position against my wishes, you being a man of
tradition to put it very mildly. I don't intend to argue with you
about basic principles, as it would be futile. We have had
different outlooks but the strong bond of friendship has kept us
together since childhood.
I would like you to know what has happened to me and what
eventually led me to this position.
I realised just now that a year has passed since we saw each
other and I really don't know where to start. So many impressions,
so many changes have occurred during this year.
Although living in the same province of Poland, in this
short time you and I have become citizens of different countries.
I, a citizen of the Lithuanian Socialistic Soviet Republic and
you, White Russian Socialistic Soviet Republic. Before, we were
separated by an insignificant country boundary, now by a closed
frontier.
Yes, my friend, since Marushka and I returned to Wilno I
have the impression of witnessing history in the making. During
this year our Wilno has changed hands from Polish to Russian, from
Russian to Lithuanian and from Lithuanian back to Russian. Wilno,
like a courtesan, changed hands, was remodelled according to her
temporary possessors. She even changed her name, as is customary
for lovers. Today she is called, more softly, Vilnius.
Our Wilno became whimsical and unfaithful. In her old age
she even has delusions of grandeur, wanting decidedly to be a
capital city. Therefore we, her permanent residents, have had to
change our citizenship twice -
from Polish to Lithuanian and from Lithuanian to Soviet.
Today
I am a citizen of Soviet Lithuania and am living in Kaunas. I left
Wilno at the time when she was Lithuanian with President Smetona
(the first and last President of Independent Lithuania). President
Smetona, with the help of his 'kalakutas' (the nickname given to
his policemen) and their rubber truncheons tried to remake Wilno,
the ancient town of King Gedymin, into the capital city of
Lithuania. At this time Wilno started to become deserted as many
of the local residents and
a majority of the evacuees went to Kaunas where, trying to get
visas, they joined the long queues in front of different
consulates and legations. From here was the last chance to go to
the west, flying through Sweden. Some went to the east, others
wanted to go to France and England (at this time the place of the
Polish exile government).
My road was short. Thirteen kilometres from Kaunas, on the
Wilkomir highway, a house with white shutters stood on a hill.
There Marushka and I lived as this was her property. Life was
idyllic. I was cutting wood in the snow-covered forests and she
was knitting, nursing the new life in her.
With the spring came the storks, as well as Soviet bases.
Afterwards the Red Army took over this country with its chapels
and crosses along the waysides. The cream of the Lithuanian
society and the government elite, including President Smetona,
left the country. The tall policemen with their red spiked helmets
disappeared from the streets. New people, of the Red Order
arrived. The Red Army soldiers filled the streets and red banners
were fluttering above the buildings. The Avenue of Independence
was now called Stalin’s Boulevard.
After the elections, the Lithuanian House of Representatives
announced, with strong ovations, that Lithuania would join the
Soviet Union as the 16th Soviet Republic. I was an observer at
this historical session of the Lithuanian Parliament.
One of the first citizens to join the new republic was our
new-born
son. We registered him in Z.A.K.S. (Civil Registry for Birth
Certificates), giving him the name of Jerzy (George).
Shortly afterwards my father died. When my son arrived into
the world, my father departed. With dramatic punctuality, the old
generation gave place to the new one.
I had to hammer the nails into the coffin where my father
was lying. You can't imagine, my friend, what a shattering
experience it was. When hitting the pine board with the hammer I
heard a dull, hollow echo coning from inside. I had the feeling
that I was doing my father a great injustice. He, who was lying
defenceless in this coffin, I was forever depriving of the
possibility of returning to his family. Those were hard moments.
After the funeral I returned to our house with the white
shutters but somehow I lost heart and interest. In this land great
changes were occurring, changes for which I had been campaigning
in academic circles before the war. You remember our club for the
intellectuals, our paper "Razem" (Together) "Druk"
(Print)? You remember our 'Gugi', 'Muty', 'Wladek', 'Henruk' and
'Robespierre' and many other enthusiasts, building in our minds
huge projects, dreaming about great changes whilst sitting in
small smoke-filled
rooms. And especially do you remember after I had been arrested as
a suspect communist and brought in the night to the chambers of
the examining magistrate, how I was brought in handcuffs for
investigation? I'll never forget the moment when the door opened
and we were facing each other. We were both in training for the
Bar -
you to become a judge, I a barrister. You recording, sitting
behind the official desk and I, the accused, in handcuffs.
Now look at us today when our dreams of long ago are
beginning to come true, when new people are trying to build the
foundations for collective living - I, like a 'kulak', have to
look after the interests of my in-laws'
farm, to fight against the landless ones.
Do
you understand the irony of my fate? I'll admit to you that I
gladly agreed to the order of the shire office of parcelling out
20-odd hectares belonging to my wife. I left the running of the
farm, Karmelowo, to my relatives who came from Wilno to Kaunas
looking for work.
Fate
intervened again, making a joke.
I became the commandant of the Red Army House. The location of my
first work for the labour socialist peasant government was amongst
highly polished floors of stylish salons in a beautiful building
designed for the previous Lithuanian Officers Club. In this
building the House of the Red Army was now located.
I
was walking on highly polished floors of the concert halls, on
Persian carpets in visitors salons, climbing marble steps covered
with red carpets. Everything was illuminated by crystal
chandeliers, with gilded pictures in the conference rooms and
tropical palms and sunny hothouses as well. I felt as if in a
dream. Was illusion a reality or was reality an illusion?
Such
a short while ago I had been carrying manure out of the barn,
trudging behind the plough. The contrast was too great to accept
readily. After a while I became accustomed to it, to the house of
culture and recreation for the Red Army. It consisted of a
library, reading room, auditorium, picture theatre, restaurants,
buffet, hotel, war museum, gymnasium and many lecture rooms such
as for physical training, sewing, foreign languages, ballroom
dancing, music, ballet, choir.
Mine
was the job of administration, general supervision of the civilian
personnel and technicians, as well as buying objects d'art and
period furniture. Anything to enrich and beautify the interior of
the House. I like the last two duties -
they give me a lot of satisfaction as well. Yesterday, for
instance, I met a very good painter of watercolours. His main
subject is the sea resort, Polonga. I intend to give him a
commission for a few pictures. I see them already hanging in the
reading room which is covered with dark blue tapestry. I will not
bother you with details and had better finish this letter. I have
given you only a very rough outline, but I am unable to put in
writing many of the topics I would like so much to discuss with
you. We will speak about those things sometime later when the war
is finished, IF our lives are spared.
Give
my love to your wife, Wisia,
Your
Zygmunt
My
friend from early childhood was Edmund Oskierka. He never received
my letter. He was deported to east Russia but never arrived at the
labour camp. He was a paraplegic and died on the way from
exhaustion.
May
he rest in peace.
The
future of my friends from the University mentioned in this letter
varied greatly:
1.
"Guga" (Druto) - wife of the future Ambassador in Paris
and Rome.
2.
"Muta" (Pziewicka) - became Chairman of the Polish
Women's Society in the Polish People's Republic.
3.
"Henryk" (Debinski) - previous leader of Catholic youth,
afterwards leader of the left academic movement, a journalist and
a brilliant orator. He was shot by the Germans as a communist.
4.
"Robespierre" (Jedrychowski) - civic leader of the
youth, editor of the academic Press. Became Minister of Shipping
and Foreign Trade, chairman of the planning commission, Finance
Minister, afterwards Minister of Foreign Affairs and also Deputy
Prime Minister of the Polish People's Republic.
5.
"Wladek" (Tilebowicz) - administrator of the editorial
office for academic and left Press. Interrogated and tortured to
death by the Gestapo.
Next morning, going to work, I mailed the letter to my
friend. I was supervising the decoration of the large marble hall
for a ball that evening which was to be included in the new
Russian film called "Lithuanian Spring".
In
the evening the ballroom looked splendid. The crystal candelabra
were sparkling, colourful balloons and lampions hung everywhere.
Multi-coloured streamers were floating from the balconies,
confetti falling softly on gala-dressed dancers blond Lithuanians,
ladies in national costumes, Russian women in berets and short
skirts. Among this bright crowd Red Army men in uniform mingled
with guests in black tails.
The
filming team arrived from Moscow. Cameramen on large platforms
covered with filming equipment came into the hall with blinding
bright lights. The producer was organising people for the
foreground nearer to the camera. Marushka, a bit shy, with a few
other ladies in long evening gowns, was chosen. The instruction
was that Marushka, dancing with me, had to move towards the
camera. The producer gave a signal with his hand and the filming
started. The orchestra played a Strauss waltz and we were dancing
towards the receding camera, lit by bright reflectors and covered
with a rain of confetti. Next we had to go laughing down the large
marble stairs towards the eye of the camera. When all the required
episodes were filmed, the ball came to an end. We were ready to
leave when I was called to Comrade Colonel, Chief of the Red Army
House, and ordered to organise, immediately, the cleaning of the
ballroom as the room would be required again the same night. The
maintenance staff, working during the night, would have the next
day off.
Going
home I saw many covered lorries driving about in different
directions. Next morning we heard the alarming news:
Deportation!!!
Arriving
at work I met men in navy trousers and grey tunics, also some
unknown civilians. The ballroom was full of stale tobacco smoke.
The assembled desks were covered with many folders containing
lists of names for deportation. Telephones were ringing
everywhere. Guards were posted at all doors. Here was now the head
office and on the railway station people were already being
assembled for the first transport. Some of our employees did not
return to work. Life in Lithuania became drab and people stopped
sleeping peacefully. The "Lithuanian Spring" lost its
smile.
Some
time later two huge pictures arrived from Moscow. One showed
manoeuvres of the Red Army under the command of Marshal Timoshenko,
the other was of Stalin addressing the Supreme Soviet General
Assembly. It was not an easy task to hang them in the main front
salon. Later I had a much harder job as we received from Russia
two monuments made of reinforced concrete. One represented a
mariner, the other a border guard with a dog. They arrived in
parts and had to be assembled. They were so heavy that I had
trouble just lifting the mariner's forearm holding his binoculars.
The director, Comrade Karmin, gave me orders to put both
sculptures in front of the main entrance. I hired bricklayers and
stonecutters, specialist monumental masons.
They
built pedestals and started assembling. I had orders to have
everything ready by the 23rd June. Only a few days were left and
my mariner had still no body, the other one had no head. The next
day it was raining and work could not continue. I was angry and in
a bad mood knowing that an unpleasant reprimand was in store for
me. Straight after tea I went to sleep in our bed behind the
wardrobe.
It
was the night of the 21st of June 1941...
We
were woken up by rifle shots and explosives. We jumped to our
feet. We were no longer accustomed to this kind of noise. We
rushed to the windows, opening them slightly. A familiar sound
from the German/Polish campaign - the deep drone of bombers.
Nervously, Marushka adjusted her glasses. We were watching the
bomber fighters which were flying very high and wondering where
the shots were coming from. Again we heard a cannonade.
Simultaneously there appeared in the sky many tiny white clouds.
We looked at each other - we understood. The planes were being
fired at, therefore they were enemy planes.
Who
was the enemy? ... We knew - the same one which in 1939, also at
dawn, also without declaring war, crossed our Polish frontiers.
The
planes departed. Hurriedly I switched on the radio to hear news
from Berlin. "Attention! Attention! An important announcement
will be made soon." Military march music in the background
and shortly we heard Mr. Ribbentrop, Foreign Minister of the
Reich. He announced that, in defiance of the Fuehrer’s previous
warning to the U.S.S.R., the Russians had amassed all their
military power along the frontier lines. The order to attack had
been given to protect Europe against communism. As from that day,
the German Reich was at war with the U.S.S.R.
When
I arrived at work I found many employees crowding the doors of the
radio cabin listening to Molotov who spoke about the treacherous
attack by the Germans, calling the Soviet people for intensified
efforts to defend their country.
Later
on the director called all employees together and advised us to
stay at work, to work harder for the good of ... etcetera,
etcetera ... but nobody worked much that day. People in larger or
smaller groups were discussing the recent events.
Next
day there came rumours that Germans had crossed the frontier and
were advancing. Some high-ranking officers arrived at the Red Army
House, many orderlies rushing around in dusty boots - many liaison
officers.
When
I entered the room of the duty officer I found a young woman lying
on a bench. Her nightdress was torn and bloody and she was covered
with a dressing gown. Her hair was dishevelled, her eyes were
feverish and scared and she had no shoes.
Her
slight wounds were dressed and we put her on a field bed in the
ballroom. She was the first wounded evacuee to reach Kaunas. She
told me that she was the wife of a Soviet officer and they had
been living near the German border. The German attack was so
unexpected that she had just managed to run away without dressing
and hide in the forest. Afterwards she had found a road and
continued running, with German tanks not very far behind. A car
stopped and gave her a lift to Kaunas.
Now
events moved quickly. Already by midday the order came to evacuate
Kaunas. Private cars, packed to full capacity with people and
luggage, were tooting along the streets passing dusty trucks. Cars
started arriving in front of D.K.A. to pick up the families of
officers and their belongings. Colonel Kadmin and some officers
loaded the most important documents and the money from the strong
box. The civilian employees were standing around and just watching
the departing Soviets.
The
building became empty. Comrade Colonel Kadmin entered the car and,
giving the keys from the building, said, "Keep safe, Comrade
Kruszewski. We will return to Lithuania." (At the time I did
not realise how prophetic these words were). In seconds his car
was lost from view. The people dispersed and I was left on the
stairs. Beside me were the two unfinished sculptures; the border
guard without a head and half the mariner. The cement in the
trough began to set.
All
that night the heavy traffic continued, only easing off in the
morning. The permanent inhabitants watched and waited. Only here
and there could we see tired Red Army soldiers and only
occasionally a car with people and luggage - mainly Jewish
evacuees.
In
the afternoon some armed men appeared in the streets. They were
rushing around singly or in groups. Across their chests hung belts
with ammunition, they had rifles in their hands, and an armband in
colours - gold/red/green. They were Lithuanian partisans. Later on
we heard shots - sometimes single ones, sometimes a burst of a
machine gun, also sounds of breaking glass. The time to plunder
was getting ripe. On the other side of the street someone was
smashing the window of a large wine shop. The windowpane broke and
first a few men, and then more, entered through the hole,
returning the same way laden with bottles.
At
that time there was no authority in Kaunas. For marauders it was a
golden opportunity to loot. I returned to D.K.A. The storeroom was
already empty. The kitchen floor was covered with cream. There
were also empty, broken vodka bottles, but no people. They had
probably enjoyed the night here. The house was empty. Only in the
boiler room did I find a man in a drunken sleep. I went up the
white marble stairs. In the marble hall where such a short while
ago the big ball had been in progress there was now only the echo
of my steps. I looked at the furniture and pictures which I had so
recently purchased, visited the hothouse where, amid the quiet of
the palms and flowers, a tap was dripping. The goldfish were
swimming erratically, opening and closing their little mouths.
Everyone had forgotten them. I changed the water and attended to
them. This was my last 'official function' in the House of the Red
Army. I went down to the office, took my personal file out of the
cabinet and, putting in into my pocket, left this house for the
last time.
I
had nothing to do here. No-one for whom to protect the property. I
was an outsider in this country. I gave the keys to the drunken
watchman before leaving the building.
In
front of the building was a group of people watching some
partisans who were smashing the unfinished sculptures. The mariner
was already smashed to bits.
When
going home, neighbours told me about the partisans who were
entering houses and executing Red Army soldiers in hiding; also
Jews and people who were on the Red Army payroll. While we were
having tea and discussing what might happen, I saw through the
window a group of partisans running towards our house. I thought
they were the ones who had been in front of the Red Army House.
Suddenly a thought struck me. They had found the address of the
commandant – me, and were coming for me thinking me a Russian,
especially as I could not speak Lithuanian. Explanations would do
no good in these times. They were young Lithuanian chauvinists,
angry and drunk. They would execute me on the spot and ask
questions later. There was no time to lose. "I have to
run," I called to my wife and in-laws and ran towards the
kitchen where I jumped out through the window into the backyard.
Going over the neighbour's fence, I saw Marushka, rather pale,
shutting the window after me.
Going
through a few more backyards, I came to Stalin's Boulevard. I
stopped at the gate and looked around. The street was covered with
smashed plaster busts of Stalin and tattered portraits of
commissars and marshals of the Soviet Union. The shop which had
been selling them had broken windows and an empty interior.
Further away, near the corner, a group of partisans were arguing
but they soon disappeared. I decided to go to our farm, Karmelowo.
Crossing the street I passed the old cathedral and turned towards
Parados Street. Here, at the foot of the hill, was an empty Soviet
tank, spent cartridges all around it. From the hill came sounds of
firing. In the park the Reds were still fighting. I came to the
trees in the 'Green Hill' and was just ready to duck between the
trees when a voice called out, "Stop." Looking around I
saw, leaning from behind a tree, a partisan in the uniform of a
railway employee. His rifle was pointing at me. I stopped. He
ordered me to raise my hands, which I did. He came close and,
providing my stomach with the barrel of his rifle, ordered me to
show my identification papers.
I
was lucky - he seemed a reasonable man. I gave him my documents
and answered as well as I could in Lithuanian. He checked all
documents, examined my passport and asked my address. He certainly
was a better clerk than a partisan as, when examining my papers,
he put his rifle against the tree before checking if I possessed
arms. I could have silenced him with one blow of my fist. But why
should I do it? He let me go anyway but would not allow me to
continue in the previous direction. I had to return to town. I
went back as far as the first turn and, when the partisan could
not see me, turned to my intended direction but, being more
cautious, I was now going through different backyards using,
whenever possible, holes in the fences to squeeze through. At last
I reached the highway. On the highway I spotted a group of
partisans. They were searching someone. I dropped into the ditch
and crawled slowly to the adjoining rye field. A few kilometres
further on I could already see the forest which continued right to
Karmelowo. I began to hurry when, unexpectedly, I heard rifle
shots. The whine of the bullets was very close, just above my
head. I realised that someone was shooting at me. I fell to the
ground, hugging the earth. My heart was beating wildly. After a
while the shooting stopped. Slowly I raised my head to have a
look. About 400 metres away, leaning against a house, was a group
of partisans. I could hear them laughing. They were not following
me. They were drinking - probably moonshine - straight from the
bottle. Crouching in the rye field, I continued towards the
forest. I had only another 70 metres to go but this last part was
quite devoid of any shelter. It was a freshly mowed meadow. I
decided to risk it and sprinted as fast as I could towards the
forest. Immediately the shooting started again but the bullets
were whistling past and I reached the first trees. The partisans
were probably too drunk to take good aim.
After
a few hours walk through dense, bushy undergrowth, I reached our
house on the hill. The white shutters were closed. I wondered if
everyone had left. I went round the house and was joyously greeted
by our dogs. The kitchen door was opened slowly by my cousin. In
seconds I was in the kitchen. Everyone came to the kitchen,
hugging me and asking for news.
"Are
the Germans already in Kaunas? Why is it so quiet? Where is the
Front?" I was asked. They told me that, during the last day
and night, the highway was covered with the retreating Soviet
Army, with masses of civilian evacuees and many Jews, who were
going by trucks, by horse-drawn carriages, and even walking. Local
residents of the nearby village fled into the forest. The little
village was empty as all were in hiding.
There
were also rumours about heavy fighting near Wilno as, coming from
the south, the German Army had supposedly broken through the Front
near Suwalki.
I
thought about it during the night. In Wilno was my widowed mother
with our son Jurek (George) and my three old aunts. They lived,
unprotected, in a large house on the outskirts of Wilno, far away
from other dwellings. There was nothing I could do here. To return
to Kaunas seemed premature. I decided to go to Wilno as it was
only 100 kilometres away.
At
dawn I packed some food, took my old pushbike and, saying goodbye
to everyone, was on my way. In the beginning I used country lanes
for shortcuts. When the sun rose I went through the forest. There
were no people and it was very quiet. Suddenly, after rounding a
bend, I saw a man in the bushes. It was a Soviet Army soldier -
part of his hand was torn away. The clotting blood looked black,
his hair and face were covered with dirt and blood, his eyes
looked frightened and feverish. Upon seeing me, he shrank back
into the bush like a wounded animal. He had ceased trusting people
and probably preferred to die among the animals in the forest.
I
passed a few deserted villages, an empty railway station and
bullet-ridden carriages with no engine. My way was now uphill.
When near another village I heard shots from the forest. I wanted
to get some information but the huts I entered were all deserted.
There were not even dogs left behind. Soon I reached the River
Niemen. Along it went the highway, Kaunas Wilno. The same road was
used by Napoleon on his way to Moscow, nearly 130 years ago.
After
a last sharp bend, I was on the highway and right in front of me
was a Russian tank. In the open turret stood a soldier with
binoculars and, around the tank, were soldiers with maps. I was
stopped, my identity papers checked, a few questions asked and I
was left free. They had bigger trouble on their hands.
A
few kilometres further on Russian cavalry was crossing Niemen -
swimming. The river was covered with horses. The soldiers were
lying on the horses or swimming behind them, hanging on to the
tails. Some were swimming without horses. Their clothing, tied
with a belt, was hanging from their necks. They were in a frantic
hurry. From the other side of the river could be heard calls,
yells and neighing of horses.
After
passing another empty little town (Rumshyshki), I had to climb a
steep hill towards Zyzmory. I did not meet anyone. Only later near
another forest I heard some shooting. In a trench were sitting Red
Army men, their rifles pointing into the woods. Behind the wall of
a hut was standing an officer with a revolver at the ready.
"Stop
him!" he called to the soldier, pointing at me. Without delay
I got off the bike. The officer approached with a hostile look on
his face.
"Who
are you?" he asked, in Russian.
"I
am a local man. I am going to Wilno where my mother and son
are," I replied in Russian.
“I
love these 'local' ones,” he drawled, with biting irony.
"Look how they are shooting at us, the bastards."
"I
am not a Lithuanian. I am a Pole,” I replied, showing my
passport.
The
lieutenant did not look at it. He was more interested in my parcel
hanging from the bike. He ordered me to take it off and show him
the contents. A few sandwiches, a piece of bacon and a spare
shirt. He gave me a dirty look, shaking the revolver at me and ...
let me go.
Near
Zyzmory I lost my way and turned into the forest. This mistake
could have easily cost me my life. Here was a concentration of
the Soviet artillery, tank formation and supply columns. All sides
were guarded. It was a larger formation that had probably lost
contact with the main force. I must state here that I had no idea
where the Front was at that time, nor from which directions the
Germans were attacking. One could not go by ear as there were no
detonations, no sound of a heavy bombardment. Only from time to
time some single shots came from different directions. Here, in
these woods, I was in a tight corner. I asked a soldier if he
could tell me the way to Wilno. An officer standing near probably
thought me a suspicious character and he ordered me to raise my
hands and searched me for firearms. Not finding any, he asked for
my identity papers. Very carefully he checked all documents,
including my birth certificate. He asked me to sign my name in
Russian in his notebook and to compare this signature with the one
of the Russian passport. He was still very suspicious. I did not
know what he concluded.
I
was expecting anything, but not what happened next. Destiny is
certainly unpredictable. Within the next few minutes the Russian
was dead. Quite unexpectedly, German bombers attacked the forest
from very low altitude. The raid was so sudden that before the
soldiers could grasp what was happening, bombs were exploding and
trees were crashing noisily. Clouds of dust were rising above the
trees. I was lying in a trench and was covered with earth. I was
shivering, covered in a cold sweat, my ears ringing and, in my
temples, the pulse was beating strongly. Again a hellish blast,
the earth trembled, a whistling noise and something hit me on the
head.
When
I opened my eyes there was a tragic stillness around me. I was
covered by a broken branch but was able to get up. Next to me lay
the officer - a piece of wood had pinned him. In his dead hand he
was still holding my passport. Branches and uprooted trees
covered the ground, everywhere were stumps. Dust and fir needles
were settling to the ground. My pushbike was undamaged. I took my
passport from the hand of the dead lieutenant and left the forest
as fast as I could. Using lanes, I bypassed Zyzmory and at last
found my way back to the main road that led me once more into a
forest. Among the trees were supply carts, abandoned by the
Soviets. The carts were unharnessed, the harnesses still hanging
on the shafts. There were blankets on the ground and bags filled
with oats. There were no soldiers. Some local peasants were
cautiously looking around, hoping to find something of value.
After
coming out of the forest I saw two saddled horses tethered to a
tree. I started to look around. Further up the hill, lying in a
ditch beside the road, were two Soviet soldiers looking intently
towards the field. I asked them if one could safely go ahead. One
of them looked at me indifferently and, after spitting on the
ground, said "If you want to, go ahead, but there,”
pointing to a nearby hill, "are the Germans."
"Does
it mean that the Front is already here?"
"Yes."
"And
nobody is shooting?"
"Why
the hell should we fire if they don't fire at us?" he laughed
and lit a cigarette.
I
was undecided. Should I wait? Or should I continue on my way? In
front of me was an empty valley. If shooting should start, what
should I do? There was nowhere to hide. Maybe on the other hill
the Germans were also lying in ditches and only waiting for an
order to start shooting? I looked at the Russian soldier
distrustfully. When they saw me going towards the Germans might
they not shoot me in the back? Who would prevent it? To kill
people at the Front is not punishable. It is a soldier's
privilege, and even their 'sacred duty'. These thoughts were
rushing through my mind and I could not decide what to do. I sat
down near the trench, lit a cigarette and waited. Anyway I was
tired. I had already covered half the distance to Wilno.
Some
time later the soldiers got up, mounted their horses and rode away
towards Zyzmory. I was left alone. In the valley the wheat was
waving with the wind, the clouds left dark moving shadows on the
field, skylarks were merrily darting. Not far away a chained dog
was howling terribly. His owner had probably deserted him.
Half
an hour passed. Everything was quiet and I could not see anyone. I
decided to risk it. I mounted the bike and quickly cycled down the
steep hill. The highway in this place was unfinished and the
detour led through a very sandy road that was impossible to pass
by bike so I started walking. I passed a broken-down army kitchen
where the ground was covered with white noodles which two grubby
little girls were gathering into their baskets. Seeing me, they
darted into the shrubs. Down the hill, before me came a cart drawn
by two horses. A peasant, looking terrified, was driving them on
with a whip. Passing me, he yelled, "Germans are
coming!" I stopped behind some trees, looked around and
seeing nothing suspicious, moved on.
Arriving
on the top of the hill, I saw the charred ruins of a farmhouse. It
was still smouldering. On the sooty stove stood a deserted machine
gun. Some blackened soldiers' helmets lay in the ashes. On the
stone bench beside the house sat a grey cat. The road now led
through birch woods, sloping downhill. After passing the woods I
again had a full view. Quite unexpectedly I saw
tarpaulin-covered lorries packed full of soldiers dressed in
greyish uniforms. These lorries were entering the highway from a
side road. In the middle of the road stood a military policeman
with a green metal helmet. He controlled the traffic. On an old
birch tree was hammered a piece of board with the words "Mach
Wilno" in German. I was now on the German side.
I
passed the soldier controlling the traffic he did not even glance
at me. Big lorries and trucks passed me continually. The air was
filled with clouds of dust and the highway seemed to tremble and
buckle under the weight of the unending traffic. After I passed
Jewje (a small town), there was a Soviet air raid. The column
stopped, soldiers jumped out of the trucks, over the ditches, and
hid in the forest. The ditch at my side was very deep. Holding my
bike, I started to go slowly down when suddenly the shadow of a
diving plane passed over me. I was in a panic. The bombs were much
too close. I dropped the bike and sprinted as fast as I could into
the forest, accompanied by loud noises of explosions and two
rising columns of dust.
After
an hour I came to Ponary, quite close to Wilno. A military
policeman stopped me, forbidding me to continue as Wilno was being
taken over by the German Army and all civilians were forbidden to
travel. I slept a few hours in the woods, finished my sandwiches
and, when the sun was setting, I was on way again going cross
country through woods and valleys, avoiding roads and highways.
Within an hour I had reached the outskirts of Wilno. The streets
were full of German soldiers.
At
crossroads they were putting up road signs showing the direction
of advancement. Near 'Ostra Brama' (an archway across the street
with a small chapel and a famous picture of the Holy Madonna),
soldiers were still in fighting formation but at the next
intersection there were already signs with 'To Minsk 208 km.' I
continued to Kolonia Wilenska (the suburb where my mother lived),
along lanes well known to me, trying again to avoid main streets.
It was dark when I opened our front gate and was greeted joyously
our old dog, Jack. My mother, with my son in her arms, came to
meet me. At last I was at home.
A
week later Marushka arrived. As travel at this stage was strictly
forbidden for civilians, she got a lift - first in a German
armoured car and, later, in a small tank. She was very tired as
all night she had been sitting on a box of ammunition with only
two thoughts in her mind? Had I reached home alive and would the
ammunition box explode with the jumping and shaking over the
pot-holed road.
Marushka
told me that her father was very anxious for me to return to
Karmelowo and take charge of the farm during these uncertain
times. After a few weeks in Wilno, taking Jurek and mother, we
returned to Kaunas, this time going by train.
In
Kaunas the organisation of the new regime was already quite
obvious. The Fuehrer's victorious army was now at Smolenks. It was
now the fourth occupation of Wilno's country and the second of
Lithuanian Kaunas. This time banners with the black swastika were
flying over the city. Once again the hopes of the Lithuanians
were not realised. The Lithuanian partisans with their
gold/green/red bands were fighting futilely as 'Lietuva'
(Lithuanian native tongue) was wiped from the map of Europe. The
Fuehrer's victorious army rushed forward on its Blitzkrieg.
Following the army came the civilian administration. The employees
of the newly appointed Minister for the Eastern Occupational
Zones, Mr. Rosenberg, were organising the administrative
machinery. There appeared 'Gebiets' - General and Reichs
Kommisariats. Lithuania was only a part of the captured 'Ostland'
(Eastland). Lithuania, with our old Wilno, was called General
Kommisariat fur Ostland, with Kaunas as the capital. Her ruler was
Party Member Freiherr von Renteln.
History
as always was patient and, once again, ready to oblige her
interpreters. The old capital, Kaunas, had to change its name.
Traditions of old Hansa were again brought to light.
Once
upon a time Kaunas was a Hansa town; therefore she must have been
German and had to be called Kauen. Traditions from the middle ages
were recalled and new orders issued.
Mr.
Rosenberg ordered all Jews to the ghetto. After a bloody pogrom
(organised massacre), 45,000 Jews were driven into the suburb,
Sloboda, which was then surrounded by barbed wire. In smaller
towns the majority of Jews were murdered outright and only the few
remaining brought to Kauen. The direct control over them was given
to - what irony - Mr. Jordan! These people with the yellow star
were down-trodden and miserable but clung to the illusions that
they were still human beings. Mr. Jordan was Chief of the
Department for Jewish Affairs at the General Kommisariat for the
Ostland (Eastern Countries - east of Germany). Mr. Jordan attacked
his work energetically. The Jewish masses began to diminish behind
the barbed wires. Mount Ponary, near Wilno, achieved a grim glory.
Transports from Kaunas and Wilno were halted in the nearby forest.
Then followed a bloody track between crushed bushes. Here the
condemned were driven on their way to cemented ditches. When the
deathly terror chocked their cries
and their brains were numbed, they had to pass in a single
file their drunken tormentors who were shooting into the human
mass. As the trenches were filled with mutilated bodies, lime was
poured over them.
On
the Avenue of Independence, in the offices of the General
Commissariat, Mr. Jordan was probably marking off some figures in
his progress reports.
Thus
died the people of the Star of David. They perished because they
dared to be born Jews.
BELLUM
VOBISCUM
October,
1941. Trees bare of leaves, cold winds whirling leaves high, grey
clouds over the rusty coloured bare fields. Our white shutters
were rattling against the walls. I returned to the farm. Today I
spent ploughing all day - it was cold and the wind penetrating.
My feet were tired after a whole day of walking behind the plough.
With pleasure, I returned home to sit down on a comfortable couch
in front of the open fire while my mother prepared dinner by the
light of a flickering kerosene lamp. My Jurek was sitting on the
carpet among his toys. The wooden rabbit and the car without its
wheels did not interest him any more. He was over a year old and
loved chewing his big toe which he preferred to his old dummy.
Marushka was ill and so was in Kaunas with her parents.
Next
morning the cold wind was still blowing. I had to go to Kaunas to
deliver my requisition as ordered by the Germans. I was sitting on
wheat bags, wrapped in a fur coat. I had to hurry and was whipping
the horses as the wheat contributions were accepted only until 2
p.m. in the suburb, Sloboda, behind the river. I had to pass the
so-called small ghetto. Behind its barbed wires it was quite
empty. Boards were nailed over the broken windows and doors. In
the empty street of the dead suburb only the wind was howling. I
remember how Marushka and her friend, Karaliene, were able to
rescue some of the Jewish children. The despairing mothers were
throwing their little children over the fence to be picked up by
Marushka and her friend. They were trying to save some life - some
uncertain life of the orphans but still life. Marushka and her
friend were finding places between the Aryan families which did
adopt them later on. There were no more Jews behind the barbed
wires. I hurried my horses along, wishing to leave behind me this
nightmarish suburb as quickly as possible. After delivering the
wheat, I drove through the city to see Marushka. On the walls of
some houses and on posts I saw some placards. I stopped the cart
and, pushing myself through a crowd of people, started to read. It
was a new order by the German occupational forces. This order was
concerned with Poles, previous Polish citizens and their families,
as well as Russian civilians who had stayed in Lithuania after the
arrival of the German Army. All the aforementioned had to leave
their present place of abode and, within three days from the date
of this order, had to move to Sloboda suburb, to the small ghetto
vacated by the Jews. This order was signed by the General
Commissar and dated 16th October, 1941.
That
meant ghetto for the Poles. I could still see those empty,
broken-down wooden houses in Sloboda. I began to shiver. The Jews
vacated the place for us. Would our future be the same as theirs?
All
Poles were greatly alarmed. At home the atmosphere was very
depressing. “What to do?” Everyone was asking. There were
still many thousands of us in this country. Nobody had any
intention of going to the ghetto. Better misery and quick death
than to be behind barbed wires in a ghetto, waiting for certain
death. The very thought of the ghetto filled one with horror. The
decision not to go was quite definite and unanimous. The results
of this decision were definite beyond all expectations.
After
three days when Mr. Jordan arrived before the ghetto to satiate
his eyes with the new conquest, there was not even one Pole there.
Only ten poor Soviets took up residence in one small house on the
edge of the ghetto. All the other houses were quite empty. The
Poles simply left Kaunas, this town of grim ghettos, and dispersed
in all directions into the country.
I
had to save Marushka who was ill, and my son Jurek. Because before
the war I was a Polish citizen, they would have to go to the
ghetto as Marushka had committed the crime of marrying a Polish
citizen. Thanks to the law, I found a way out of it. Marushka and
I got a divorce - she could keep our son and had to take her
maiden name again. I hid in the country. Many Poles followed my
example but some fled to Wilno, maintaining that, should the
Germans order people to the ghetto, the whole town would become
one big ghetto.
Some
took to the roads, tracking along small lanes, sometimes getting a
lift or, like tramps, finding sleeping accommodation in empty
freight trains and following the railway tracks, looking for some
lucky break. Here in Kaunas everything was against them. Just the
thought of the ghetto filled one with horror. The evacuees were
like pilgrims, searching for human rights in this world. Would
they find it in their own country, their country trodden down and
suppressed by war? Even they doubted it.
BELLUM
VOBISCUM
Winter
was approaching. A hard, ominous winter of 1941-1942.
The
bare soil, not yet covered by snow, became hard as rock. Even the
small sprigs were covered with white frost and a greyish frost
hung in the air.
I
was bringing milk to Kaunas, peddling my pushbike vigorously from
Karmelowo where I was living in the house with the white shutters,
hiding from the Germans. My breathing was becoming laborious, my
eyelashes and eyebrows were covered with hoarfrost. The highway
led past empty paddocks, the telephone wires were ringing hollowly
and the frost was tightening its forceps. My hands were becoming
blue from the cold. On the misty highway a long column of Soviet
war prisoners appeared. They walked bent, their heads pulled as
far as possible into their collars of their trench coats. On their
shoulders were visible the big letters SU. SU. SU. (short for
Soviet Union). The column progressed slowly and tended to stretch
out more and more, never ending with those who already were weak.
They just shuffled their legs. Their grey faces were very thin,
their eyes deep and hollow. Some of these human skulls covered
with skin were wrapped in rags, under which the wounds might heal.
It seemed that some of these prisoners would be unable to reach
their camps behind wires. They were dragged by their mates, their
heads hanging down, their feet dangling along. They were slow and
lagging behind. The impatient German soldiers were prodding them
along with the butts of their rifles. Why should they hurry? Where
to? Death would find them anywhere - in the labour camps, behind
the barbed wires, in barracks erected quickly from thin planks,
and on the earthen floor among dirt, lice and various infections
... and in the queue to the kitchen with its pots of frozen
potatoes and rotted cabbages ... and there in the streets being
used as horsepower, dragging heavy cartloads, as there were more
prisoners than horses. Death was lurking where they had to shovel
the snow away, where the frost was coagulating the blood of the
starving S.U....SU...SU..., living skeletons, chopping trees in
the forests or digging peat in frozen swamps. Everywhere!
Everywhere! ... Where the hundred thousand humans could be
disgorged from the Front. Why should one care about these humans?
Should they perish, others would take their place. Victory was
assured. The Fuehrer's army was at the gates of Moscow. In eight
weeks the war would be finished. Conventions and humanitarianism
were only for declaration in the Palace of the League of Nations.
In the 'New Europe' this herd of prisoners of war would be looked
after by the 'Arbeitsartit' (Employment Office).
It
was a terrible winter for the people with the SU... SU... SU...
stamped on their backs. They were branded like cattle taken for
slaughter. The dead ones were grabbed by their legs and thrown
into a common ditch. The sick ones were allowed to stay on their
wooden bunks to wait for death.
BELLUM
VOBISCUM
January,
1942.
General
'FROST' became the victorious Chief Commander of the Soviet Army.
The
snow became hard, the water frozen and like rock on the rivers.
The air looked grey - it seemed that at any moment it would get
hard too, that it would turn to ice.
I
was on the railway station. On the first platform stood a long
transport. The engine was covered with ice but there were clouds
of white steam from the engine. Behind the engine were freight
cars with a most unusual load. The Fuehrer's victorious soldiers,
suffering severe frostbite, were lying on the floors. Bandaged
soldiers covered with blankets, shawls, rags and torn Russian army
coats, were lying on the floors of the freight train. They were
untouched by enemy bullets, not even scratched by shrapnel. They
were the victims of 'General Frost', the enemy without mercy who
started his offensive in January, armed with the most powerful
weapon. This weapon was the freezing air. At the Front the mercury
in the thermometers was still contracting, the silver column was
going down the minus Celsius scale 30 .. 35 .. 45…
'General
Frost' was tightening his pincers without mercy. His wind was
chasing the transports, his snow massed on the railway lines, the
waiting engines were covered with ice and the soldiers were
freezing in the unheated wagons.
The
white general took the side of the Red Army. Now he was not only
the general, but Marshal Frost, stopping the attack on Moscow,
halting the Fuehrer's offensive. Already in 1812 he had struck
down Napoleon's army at the same Moscow gates. Now
he intended to repeat the debacle a second time.
The
transport with the frostbitten soldiers of the twentieth century's
Napoleon was standing a long time at the platform in Kaunas
railway station. Those who could climbed to the platform, using
sticks and dragging their swollen legs, covered in rags. They
could not wear boots. Sisters from the Red Cross were serving hot
coffee. Some had to be fed by spoon like helpless children. They
could not manage by themselves as, instead of arms, they had
only two useless stumps frozen up to the elbows. There were
also some who could not drink at all. Their faces were too stiff
and they looked ghastly.
With
a piercing whistle and screeching of brakes, a new transport
appeared from the tunnel. The engine was covered with a shield of
ice, the cars were covered with stiff, frozen snow and the Red
Cross signs covered with white hoarfrost. It surely was a
transport of the White Cross as the victims were cut down in a
bloodless battle by the white enemy. At last thousands of
frost-bitten soldiers were returning to the Fatherland, to their
home towns and their hospitals, to wait there for amputation of
their limbs which they were still dragging with them. They were
hoping for a miracle but the gangrene was spreading in the badly
frost-bitten and neglected limbs. In the Fatherland the hospitals
were getting ready to receive them.
BELLUM
VOBISCUM
A
young shepherd arrived, panting. "Sir, the Germans are
digging up corpses."
"Where?"
"There,
in the woods where the grave is."
I
pushed the scythe into the field, put my whetstone alongside the
pitcher with water and went across the river to the woody hill in
the direction indicated. I saw a group of people and three white
coffins made from planks. I came nearer; the smell was putrid. Two
Russian war prisoners covered with aprons and wearing long rubber
gloves, were carefully removing a large rag from the bottom of the
pit. A few German soldiers were standing nearby supervising the
exhumation. One of them was making some notes. A few young
shepherds watched, full of curiosity. When the Soviet prisoners
removed the sheet from the pit we could see three German soldiers.
They were lying huddled together like sleeping brothers. One, with
his outstretched arms, hugged both the others. In the dry sand of
this hill their bodies were fairly well preserved considering that
a year had passed since shells from a Soviet tank had ended their
lives. The broken fir stump was still there. They had been sitting
under this fir tree on this, their fatal date - 27th June, 1941. I
remembered the shelling very well as it happened barely 200 metres
from our house. Our house had trembled, the windows shook and a
large dust cloud rose over the hill. Only later did I see the new
grave and the broken fir tree. On the ground remained the metal
helmet with holes, a few shell fragments and a dirty notebook. I
read his name: Obergefreiter Stanislaus Kuzzawa from Selesia. On
the last page was a short note; 27.6.41. In the woods near
Kauen, Soviet tanks are shooting from the village .... These
were his last notes. The most important fact he was unable to note
in his diary was that in a few seconds he would be dead. He, a
Pole on Lithuania's soil, fighting for the ideals of the
aggressive German. Now he was lying in his grave - I did not know
which body was his; the one with the smashed skull, the one
without legs, or the one holding his comrades in his arms. Their
faces had no expression, stiff in a deathly grin.
Many
of these graves marked the roads of Hitler's war up to the Volga,
the Krim vineyards, reaching even the far hills of the Kaukas. The
Fuehrer was at the peak of his victory. He gave orders that graves
far behind the Front should be opened and his soldiers returned to
their native soil, the soil on which they grew up for the
'Fuehrer, Volk and Vaterland'. They were to be buried near the
battlefields only as a temporary measure.
Crosses
topped with German helmets were standing guard on the conquered
lands. The living went forward to conquer new lands as per the
Fuehrer's orders. The victorious army advanced through the Volga
steppes, through sandy Libia and climbed the hills of the wild
Kaukas.
Victory,
Victory - the words of the paean were on the stages and on screens
with a background of thousands of planes and tanks and innumerable
columns of captured prisoners. The song was echoed by the marching
army. The German radio repeated it in their news: "Special
announcement. Krasnodar has been taken, Majkop is taken. The enemy
suffered great material losses.. Thousands of war prisoners have
been taken ... Tobruk has fallen .. Solum has fallen ... Marshal
Rommel is standing with his unconquerable army at the frontier of
Egypt ..." and, finally, among these names marking the
triumphal march of the Fuehrer we heard the two: STALINGRAD - and
EL ALAMEIN.
BELLUM
VOBISCUM
Once
again the winter has come - 1942/43. In our house on the hill the
white shutters were again rattling in the cold wind. On the cold,
misty mornings I took my saw and we went into the forest to cut
wood, half for us and half for export to the Reich.
In
the evenings, as before, I used to sit on the old couch in front
of the fire which illuminated the room with a red glow, but my
little Jurek did not play in front of me on the carpet. I was
alone. The family were in Kaunas where I delivered them milk and
food. The highway was not empty. I did not meet my transports; nor
Soviet prisoners driven in long columns. The Front was far away.
The fight near Stalingrad seemed to come to an end. Now the
Russians were taking German war prisoners.
Jurek
always met me at the front door. While I was unpacking my milk can
he climbed on the pushbike and, furiously dinging the bike bell,
announced my arrival. After tea, making sure all the doors were
locked, I sat by the radio. Listening to the voice from London was
punishable by death.
But
Jurek was always with me. "Wait, wait daddy, I will switch on
the radio." Climbing on my knees and manipulating the nob
with his tiny fingers he would say "Look, see? There is light
behind the glass" and, in a few seconds, came the voice from
London: "This is the Polish Radio Warsaw, Krakow, Poznan ...
broadcast from London. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Firstly
the latest news. The three hundred thousand strong army of Field
Marshal Paulus is trapped. The pincers of the Soviet
counter-offensive have closed. The Soviet headquarters had issued
an ULTIMATUM. After 97 days of bloody fighting, Hitler lost the
battle of Stalingrad.
Next
morning dawn again found me cutting wood in the forest.
The
German administration demanded more and more. The amount of the
requisitioned goods always increased. We had to deliver wheat,
potatoes and milk to the Germans. The eggs I carried in a basket
to the collection centre. I also had to deliver vegetables, hay
and straw, hens and meat. Our herd was decreasing rapidly. There
were only five cows left; the rest went to be converted into
tinned food for the 'Wehrmacht'. About fifty percent of our
products had to be given to the occupation forces. This winter
they took horses and carts as well. As it was getting harder to
make ends meet, my relatives who had arrived more then a year ago
from Wilno, left Karmelowo looking for jobs somewhere else. My
cousin became a waitress in a Wilno restaurant and her husband got
work in a mill to be nearer the flour. I was left only with my
Simon. He was a farm labourer and had a wife and two children. We
three had to do all the work between us. Life became even harder.
Spring
was coming. When the March sun melted the remaining dirty snow and
the furrows were dried by the wind, we went to work in the fields.
Simon walked behind the harrow and I, with measured steps, sowed
the seed, thinking about our Krystyna. She was not born yet but we
had already given her this name, the name of Lavrans daughter,
because Marushka and I liked the author Sigrid Undset.
At
the end of March, 1943, Marushka bore me a son. Thus our
long-awaited Krystyna became Roman. He came into our family as the
second war child, another male offspring. Both grandmothers took
him under their wings. Jurek was thrilled. When his new brother
arrived from hospital, he grabbed a vase of flowers and, before
anyone could stop him, he was bending over Roman's head, tilting
the vase and saying "Smell them, my little brother, they are
smelling lovely". Of course all the water from the vase went
over Roman. Thus the two brothers met for the first time.
Summer
progressed quickly. The wheat sown with my own hands grew and
Simon and I were already sharpening our scythes to be ready for
the reaping. Sitting in the shade of a willow tree, our hammering
on the scythes made the melodious sounds so familiar to all
harvesters. Jurek was dragging a long chain and making puffing
sounds, pretending to drag a train behind him. A small puppy,
Miki, barking loudly, was trying to grab the chain. The same chain
which represented a train to George was probably to Miki a hunted
animal. Fantasy on both ends of a chain.
Mr.
Alfred Rosenberg also had his own fantasies. In the chain of war
events he was adding new links. He changed the face of the Ostland.
The countries along the Baltic Sea became ‘Forefront
Fatherland'. The general commissar received instructions in the
utmost secrecy. The ruler of Lithuania, Freiherr won Renteln,
ordered all Poles to be deported from Lithuania. No placards or
proclamations were issued. He had learned his lesson with the
arranging of the Polish ghetto. Instead he sent lorries into the
country with his Gestapo men. They took the people from farms,
from private homes in cities and small towns. The people were
ordered to leave behind all their immovable possessions as well as
most of the moveable ones. The Polish owners were rounded up and
transported as a labour force to the Reich. In the Reich, Germans
were ready to come and occupy the empty farms. Into Lithuania
arrived new colonists. Export and import of humans was
flourishing. Rosenberg shuffled people, building his house of
cards. From the east the thunder was approaching and an ill wind
was blowing, shaking the foundations of his house of cards. Not
many colonists had arrived in the newly-formed 'Forefront
Fatherland' when the first evacuees began to arrive into Germany.
They were the 'Wolgagermans', the old German colonists from the
fertile Ukraine.
The
Red Army was pushing forwards. The Fuehrer took over as the Chief
Commander of German armies. A new phase began “The brilliant
strategy of the ‘mobile war'” as it was called by the new
agency. Each Tuesday there was a broadcast by General Diettmar
"With tremendous material losses for the enemy, the German
Army have occupied new and better positions, withdrawing according
to plan".
The
Anglo-American air offensive was increasing its range causing the
German Minister of Heavy Armaments, Reichsminister Speer, many
sleepless nights. Many factories were in ruins, but the Fuehrer
required new guns, tanks and airplanes.
More
people were required for labour in the Reich. Berlin was sending
new instructions to the General Commissariats in the East. The
employment office, Gestapo and police were busy. People were
captured in the streets, cafes, picture theatres, in market
squares and on roads. Lithuania had to supply an additional
100,000 labourers. Transports were organised, on the railway
station people were de-loused in specially prepared disinfection
rooms and loaded into trains. Here Marushka and her friend, Alma,
who both worked in the 'Abeitamt' were able to facilitate the
flight for many women from the transports to Germany. Out of the
disinfection room the women were conducted to the back street and
to freedom. Only at the last moment was I able to rescue Simon,
our farm worker. I lived on forged documents. Marushka was
transferred from her job at the Red Cross where she worked as an
interpreter to the employment office where she was an interpreter/
typist, and later on, to the offices of military workshops for
transport vehicles. Through paying her tribute in work, she was
allowed to stay with her children.
Another
winter came, the fifth in Lithuania. Much could be said about
those years. They were the years of 'Drang nach Osten' (Expansion
to the East). But now came a special year, the year 1944 - two
scores and four. Bewitched by the prophetic words of the old
Polish bard, we expected great historical changes in this coming
year. The might of the Fuehrer started to crack. On all fronts
blows were falling on the invincible Wehrmacht. The Fatherland was
being crushed by allied bombs.
This
year was the beginning of total retreat.
The
European underground started to rise again.
In
Lithuanian forests, partisans appeared. Sore of them, in colourful
armbands, had long ago greeted the advancing, victorious Germans
in the streets of Kaunas, but now they were throwing hand grenades
under the wheels of the German vehicles. The expansive Lithuanian
forests presented a good hiding place for the underground. The
Germans issued an order to cut down the trees along both sides of
roads and railways. Disobedience was punished by death. It was
easier to fight the forest than the people hiding there. For
thousands of kilometres the trees were felled, 200 metres deep.
The felling was the duty of the local people who had grown up in
their shade. I also had to fell the trees on our hill. Simon and I
felled the silver firs, the gentle white birches and the tall pine
trees smelling of resin, until the hill was bare along the
highway. Many trees went but many new people came into the
forests. The vast forests of Lithuania and Wilno county were
sheltering an odd collection of people. History will be silent
about many legends from these forests. The ideas and laws in these
forests were not always pleasant to the ears of the chronicles of
the Polish Government, nor to London. The slogans were different
for BOR and different for ROLA (BOR-Komorowski, Chief Commander of
the white partisans -AKA. ROLA-Zymierski, Commander of the Red
Polish detachment - AL.)
Not
only the Poles had their lairs in the forests. Hiding in these
forests were also Soviet war prisoners, many German deserters from
the Fuehrer's army, and the fugitives from ghettos. Soviet
paratroopers jumped down into the forests too and started to
organise the cadres of the Red partisans. The Lithuanian forests
forces grew in strength when the men from Plechavicius battalions
came to hide as their mutinous General Plechavicius was to be
arrested by the Germans and his men were to be sent to the Front.
The armies from the vassal countries started to rebel - they did
not wish to shed their blood for the General Commissariat in
Kaunas. In these hospitable forests various gangs of robbers and
looters also found shelter, hiding under the name of partisans.
In
the beginning of 1944, in the north-eastern part of the former
Polish republic, the partisans grew to great strength. In the
virgin forests of Rudnicks, Lida and Traki, they had foray bases
and, from Smorgonie on, their power was complete. The peasants
were paying the requisition to them only. They were given signed
receipts which they handed to the village chief, hoping that this
would stop the Germans demanding their share. The German
administration existed here in theory only. The German civilian
clerks had left this inhospitable part long ago, seeking
protection in the 'Gebiets Kommisariat' where the Germans still
ruled. Protected by army garrisons, there they even ventured
outside - but in armoured cars.
At
this time the German forces were holding the bridgeheads near
the famous Berezyna, and the Soviet Army was forcing its way
through the Prypec swamps.
A
storm was brewing once again over the land trampled so often by
various wars. The distant thunder could already be heard. People
again crowded around their radios. Once more there were
frightening rumours as well as hopeful predictions of early peace.
Anxiety grew. Would the Front pass gently over this land? Maybe
the war would finish even sooner? It was senseless for Hitler to
continue fighting, the people tried to convince each other.
As
before, I was bringing the milk to Kaunas but the highway was no
longer empty. Towards the Front, the German soldiers were
advancing and from the opposite side came the first wave of
evacuees.
Jurek
met me at the door as usual. But now he took my hand and we went
to see his small brother who was holding a dummy in his mouth.
Lying in his cane cot, Roman looked like a tiny animal in a cage.
"Daddy, do you know that this, 'our puppy', can already get
up?" He was saying it with a certain pride, pointing to the
openings in the old cane bed.
As
before, I listed to Radio London, Moscow and Swit (a secret radio
station in occupied Poland). The news was good and getting even
better. It was the beginning of an epilogue for the great
historical drama. In a good mood I was returning, as before, to my
house on the hill. The white shutters were rattling slightly in
the gentle Spring wind. The last snow had melted in the valleys,
and the earth became warm and streaming. It was time to go and
work in the fields. But this time I was sowing half-heartedly as
the future ownership of the land was rather doubtful. Who would be
reaping these fields? Would the storm coming from the East destroy
the crop and the house? These and similar thoughts did not encourage
enthusiastic work.
The
sowing was finished, the fields were soon covered with the new
green grass, all the potato field was covered with new manure but
the Front was still far away.
At
last came the day. I was sitting with Jurek in a strawberry
paddock looking for the first ripe berries when I heard the news
that Minsk (now the capital city of White Russia in the Soviet
Republic) had been re-taken and the German Army had surrendered.
The road to Wilno was open. The last Germans were leaving the
Soviet Union.
The
theatre of war again touched our land. The roads were full of
evacuees from the east. The highway was covered with long lines of
Russian 'telegi' drawn by small, thin horses. Sitting on their
dirty bundles were the evacuees from the faraway east. Under
these carts dangled the empty buckets. The children dozed and the
tired women stared blankly. The men, in torn shoes and shirts,
were walking heavily alongside the cart followed by a thin cow on
a chain. Day and night the carts dragged by, forming columns -
homeless people, half-starved animals were travelling for months
into an unknown and, to them, a foreign west. They were often
overtaken by dusty trucks, packed with goods, driven by the 'Volksdeutsche'.
Mr.
Rosenberg's house of cards tumbled. The imported German
colonialists were hurriedly fleeing from the Ostland. Those, who
only a short while ago had arrived as the 'Herrenvolk', had
already packed, and soon after the Lithuanians started to flee
from Wilno, especially Lithuanian public servants who were leaving
their new Lithuanian capital city, Wilno, in fear of reprisals
from the Polish inhabitants.
Once
again there were bombers over Kaunas - this time Soviet ones.
Again air raids, bombs, and people fleeing to shelters. Kaunas had
only a few shelters. The raids were usually at night. Whenever the
siren sounded people rushed out from houses and, in the outer
suburbs, towards the bunkers of the old fortresses. In the streets
people loaded with suitcases, prams and crying children were
yelling and shouting. Great flares of light brightly illuminated
everything, accompanied by the noise of the circling bombers and
tracer bullets under the dark ceiling of the sky. We would put
Jurek and Roman in the pram and, taking only the bare essentials
for the children, rush to the bunkers. Such were the grim nights
in Kaunas.
In
the meantime news came from the front. We heard through London
radio that Wilno was surrounded by the Soviet Army and that there
was heavy fighting in the streets.
This
was a signal for us; we started hiding our goods. With Simon, we
dug a big hole in the barn under the hay where we hid a large
barrel full of wheat and a box of personal clothing. Under cover
of darkness, we dug a hole in the bushes for the bacon from our
last pig. All the neighbours were doing the same. Everywhere one
could see smoke coming from the chimneys as people were smoking
their bacons and preparing meat for the brine. Everything was dug
into the ground. We all knew that the bloody fighting in Wilno's
streets had already continued for the fifth day. The Germans were
now fighting for every foot of soil, being near their Fatherland.
Heavy battles were expected on the line of the River Niemen and
over Kaunas. We were living near this town beside the highway and
near the extremely busy airfield. Nothing good could be expected
in our countryside.
When
the companies from the Front started arriving in our village the
peasants started to leave the neighbourhood, taking all their
possessions with them. They went to the hilly forest on the other
side of the river. Things started to get hot for us too. On the
highways were the remaining evacuees from the Soviets. They were
mainly policemen who had worked for the Germans. In Russia, during
the German occupation, they were employed mostly in
prisoner-of-war camps and in helping to catch the partisans. The
road of return was closed to them. They were the ones who were
doing a lot of harm. They looted and plundered the houses near the
roads; they took horses and cattle. We were helpless as they were
armed. We had already received a few of these visits and decided
to go to the other side of the river to try and save some of our
goods. Simon and I harnessed the horses to the cart, packed the
remaining goods, roped our remaining cows and crossed to the other
side of the river. At the ferry we had waited in a long queue of
carts. The cows were mooing, the dogs chained under the carts were
barking and the peasant women, surrounded by their children, were
lamenting and wailing. On the other side of the river, using
winding country lanes, we went uphill. In one of the deep gorges I
spotted farm buildings, quite well hidden.
There
we found shelter. I left Simon there with all our possessions
and, taking a boat, went back home. At home I found military
police had been billeted in our house. On the highway stood a
guard. Some officers sat on the veranda. Jurek, touching some
shining buttons on the uniform, asked questions and could not
understand why the German did not speak Polish. Marushka was
packing rucksacks with our personal belongings. We were not
certain what to do. My in-laws wanted to stay in Kaunas with
little Roman. My mother wanted to take Jurek and go to the forest
on the other side of the river.
I brought Jurek and mother by boat to the other side of the
river. I decided to stay with Marushka in our house and await
further developments from the Front.
At
that moment we had only one aim to keep us all alive and, if
possible, to save some of our possessions.
One
rumour was being persistently repeated: on the recaptured lands
the Soviets were mobilising all men of military age and, after a
short training, sending them to the Front. Our anxiety increased.
I had never belonged to the group of men who liked the profession
of 'being a knight', especially in such 'un-knightly' times.
Fighting with arms, shooting people, using methods of violence had
always filled me with disgust and loathing. It is a dirty
business. Should one behave like a monster, even in the name of
the highest and most noble ideals? I know, I certainly know, what
reply I can expect - for ideals ... for freedom ... if someone is
attacking you, you should defend yourself.
Yes,
Yes and, once again, Yes! I know, so go and kill each other,
slaughter each other, so go and rape each other's wives and
sisters - in the name of the holy ideals. I would like to know if
fighting in the name of ideals makes the uniformed masses,
fighting their battles, any more noble and gentle? During the
fighting there exists a special unwritten morality where young men
of twenty or so, steeped with blood and alcohol, can form their
character by indulging in killing, raping and looting, without
fear of punishment. No... I hate war with its well-organised
machinery, irrespective of who is killing whom. It is enough for
me to know that humans are killing humans, that they try to
annihilate each other in the most brutal and criminal ways. I also
have the right to voice my 'holy ideals'. Up till now, fate has
helped me to stay away from this sad duty. Would I now, by the end
of the war, be forced to go against my most holy principles?
During these five years I had seen enough of this criminal war.
Should I be forced now to actively become a part of it? There was
even something worse - I would be incorporated in the Lithuanian
battalions with strange people, not even knowing their language. I
would feel completely defeated. Marushka, afraid of all this,
hesitantly suggested flight, whispering flight. I did not want to
flee with the Germans. The thought nauseated me and, anyway, where
to? And what would become of my children and parents? What should
I do? What?
A
few days passed. Wilno was recaptured. During the night we could
see the glow on the far horizon and hear the explosions.
The
Front was getting nearer. On the dusty highway, occasional groups
of stragglers from the German Army began appearing. We were
familiar with these signs; these were the symptoms of lost
battles. Emaciated German soldiers in torn uniforms, unshaven,
supporting themselves with sticks, dragged their way along. As 132
years before with Napoleon's army, so now with the remnants of the
German Army, struggled along the road. History was repeating
itself but, unfortunately, nothing had been learned. On these old
roads dragged the remains of Hitler's decimated army. After years
of bloody fighting they, who had wanted to own Moscow as well as
the Egyptian pyramids, had only secured for themselves enough land
for their graves. Today their way is marked by crosses.
This
time I went on foot to Kaunas as the retreating soldiers were
crowding the highway and cycling was not possible. In my hand I
carried a milk can for my little Roman. Sometimes a private car or
a motorbike passed the columns, covering all of us with clouds of
dust.
In
Kaunas I met a man who was able to make his way from the east. He
had passed the Front in the Wilno forests and arrived unharmed in
Kaunas. He was quite emphatic regarding the rumours about the
mobilisation of the local people by the Soviets. This had been his
main reason for fleeing from the east. He was a Pole and wanted to
be in his own country. On my way back to Karmelowo I thought about
him. With all these evacuees and the chaos behind the lines of
German armies, perhaps there was a chance of reaching my homeland.
There was my native land, there lived most of my relatives ... I
was so immersed in my thoughts that for a few seconds it did not
register that a truck had stopped beside me. The driver, a German
officer with a map in his hand, was making signs for me to
approach. The truck was carrying German soldiers. When I came near
enough, he asked me "Nach Wilkomir? Nach Wilkomir?" I
replied in German that he was on the right road and that he had
another 75 km to go. When he was ready to move on I asked if he
could give me a lift, standing on the steps of the truck. He
agreed. It was getting dark and, on the horizon, one could see the
glow of burning forests. The soldiers were sitting in silence,
their heads resting on their rifles. They were nearing the Front
perhaps that very night would see them in the fighting lines.
"How
far is the Front?" I risked asking.
"In
Wilkomir,” replied the officer without a moment's hesitation.
"That
close?" I blurted out.
"Yes,
sure, and soon it will be even nearer," he added with an odd
smile.
A
few minutes later I jumped off the car as we had come to the lane
leading to our house.
Till
late in the night we discussed the project to go to Warsaw.
Warsaw. Why Warsaw? Warsaw and the surrounding counties were
occupied by the Germans, but not incorporated into the Third Reich
like many other cities. Nor could the Russians take one from there
and enlist in the Red Army. In Warsaw there were many relatives
and friends - Marushka's and mine. I wanted to share the war
years, still ahead, with my own countrymen. Marushka's eyes were
full of tears. Her parents did not want to go but they wanted to
keep Roman. My mother wanted to be in the forest on the other side
of the river, keeping Jurek with her. Anyhow, it would have been
impossible to take the children. I suggested she stay where she
was, as only my
life was at stake but, at this, she burst out crying. She took
this dilemma very hard. The tragic dilemma for a mother, wife and
obedient daughter at one and the same time. She wept silently.
Occasionally we could hear some muted detonations - the clock was
ticking away, marking the passing of the night. I was silent. It
was dawn when Marushka threw her arms around my neck. Between the
children and me, she had chosen me. The decision was taken. A hard
and painful last decision. We would both go to Warsaw.
Next
morning we finished our packing and checked our bikes.
Looking
through the window, during lunch, I saw two riders coming up the
hill towards our house. The very thin horses climbed the hill with
great trouble. I went out to meet them, accompanied by the barking
of the dogs. The two very tired riders came into the yard,
stopping at the draw well. Looking at them I was unable to
suppress a grin. In front of me were two classical caricatures.
Don Quixote from la Manche with his Sancho Panza. This sight would
have been humorous if not for the deep tragedy of the situation. A
symbolic tragedy.
The
riders were two soldiers in German uniforms and bareheaded. One
was extremely tall with a pale, long face. Round his neck was
slung a rifle his strapped feet were bare and dirty. The other was
a young man with a round face. In his hand he was holding a birch
rod and he was seated on a small Kirghis pony. While I was looking
at them with astonishment 'Don Quixote' started talking in German.
"We
are hungry. Do you have something to eat?" I nodded my head.
They dismounted and the horses rushed towards the grass near the
fence. I took them into the kitchen. "I,” continued 'Don
Quixote', "have a bad stomach and can't eat anything heavy. I
would really like some sour milk."
"And
you?" I asked 'Sancho Panza'. "I don't care as long as
there is plenty of it,” he replied, to my astonishment in
Russian. "Aren't you a German?" I asked him.
No.
The German, sitting down, hurriedly explained.
"He
is a Russian from the Wlasov army. A young lad of seventeen. He
escaped while his army was surrounded. I found him on the road
beside the forest. He was sitting and crying. He did not know what
to do with himself. I felt sorry for him. You see I also have a
son like him at the front. I don't know what is happening to him.
My God, what is the war doing to us?" He sighed heavily and
called to the boy - "Sit down, Alex." After the boy sat
down he continued "He is a Russian, but he is a good boy so I
took him with me. What does he know about the world? He was only a
child when the war started, just like Hans who might be dead
already. It is more than half a year since I have heard from
Hans." He sighed again and from his pocket brought out a worn
photo of his son in uniform.
He
continued: "Photos, only photos, that is all that remains.
Near Hanover I had my own business. In 1943 everything was bombed
out including my house. My wife died leaving me with my only
child, my son Hans. Will I ever see him again? Half a year. My
God, half a year of this war is very long. Oh, the damned war.
What has the Fuehrer done with his cursed party?
“He
promised to create a new Great Germany, to give everyone work. And
we believed it. He spoke so convincingly, so beautifully. And what
has he given us? Ruins and cemeteries. Instead of the Great
Germany now we have not even a Fatherland." He put the photo
back in his pocket, sighed, and continued eating.
I
looked at the boy. He was eating ravenously. "How did you
come to be in the German Army?" I asked him. "I joined
voluntarily." "Voluntary?" "Sure, what should
I have done? There was no other life. You see in our parts it was
this way. You either had to join the German Army or go into the
woods to the red partisans. You couldn't do anything else. If you
didn't go to serve in the German Army joining the Wlasovs, the
Germans would deport you for labour into Germany. In the forests
with the partisans it was a very hard life. To the Wlasovs the
Germans issued boots, uniforms and better food. The family was
also better off. So I went and joined the German Army."
After
they had finished eating they went to the barn to sleep. When, in
the evening, I came to look for them I found them still sleeping.
The German was lying on his stomach, his long, bare feet stretched
out, the Russian curled into a ball with his hand under the arm of
his protector. Don Quixote and his Sancho Panza - two
knight-errands of our times. What tragedy was incarnated in those
two ludicrous figures.
That
is what people are to the war.
That
is what war is to people… and the two scraggy nags were feeding
along the fence.