On
The River Trail
The
train was not crowded, with only an occasional passenger in a
compartment. Not many were keen to go in the direction of the Front.
Everywhere there was darkness and deathly quiet. Lighting a match,
we put our belongings away and sat close to each other. On the empty
platform, the stationmaster's lamp appeared, moved up and down a
few times, and we started to move away. The hilly outlines of
Krzemienice were barely visible. The monotonous sound of the wheels
made us sleepy and we began to doze. After about an hour, the train
stopped at Kamienica. Yells, calls and banging doors indicated a
large crowd on the platform.
The
darkness was so complete that it was impossible to distinguish
anything. On the platform, seeking information, I found that the
crowd consisted only of soldiers. I went to the stationmaster who
informed me that the train was not going any further, that we would
have to change trains and our next train would come soon.
After
a half-hour wait, the blue light of a diesel train appeared. It was
a passenger train full of soldiers. When it stopped, the soldiers
waiting on the platform rushed to the doors. We had great trouble
pushing our way on board and trying to find room between the packed
rucksacks of the soldiers. There was no hope of squeezing into a
compartment. We found room in the passage near a window. The
soldiers were tired and sleepy. They did not talk, but tried to find
a comfortable position to rest.
After
an hour, Marushka was very tired from standing. I made her
floor-space along the wall, giving her the gas mask as a pillow. I
sat down on our suitcase, putting my feet in such a way that I could
protect her head from the feet of passers-by.
It
was dawn when the train arrived at Zdalbunowo. As the train was
going no further, we had to leave.
The
stationmaster did not know if another train would be coming, but he
told us to wait. It was impossible to enter the waiting room as it
was packed with soldiers. Near the station buildings were a few
wooden houses. On one was a sign "Station Restaurant,” on the
other "Grocer". The restaurant was also very crowded and
full of smoke. At the tables, which were covered with grey paper,
soldiers were drinking tea.
I
thought it time to buy some food for our journey and went to the
grocer shop which was also packed full. One could only buy
shoelaces, washing powder and matches. The prices were fantastic - a
box of matches was 50 grosh (twenty-five times more than the normal
price). I went back without buying anything.
Suddenly
there was a commotion. Soldiers were grabbing their belongings and
running away from the station; the train gave one piercing whistle
and backed out of the station. We understood - it was an air raid.
Grabbing the suitcase, we ran with Marushka through the restaurant
kitchen into the backyard, hiding between trees. There were no
shelters, no trenches. In seconds we could hear the bomber planes
above us. Three German bombers were making tight turns over the
station. We fell to the ground. They dived, coming in quite low.
There were seconds of waiting with pounding hearts and heavy
breathing. A tremendous explosion ... and then again, and again
and again. The earth was trembling. We felt a blast of air, and then
all became quiet. We looked around. Plumes of smoke curled above the
rails near the station. We waited, but the planes did not return, so
we all went back to the station to survey the damage. The main
railway track was badly damaged and there was no hope of further
travel by train. As Rowno was less than 20 km. away, we decided to
walk, hoping that at a bigger station we might be able to find a
possibility of further transport in the direction of Wilno. I
strapped the two suitcases together and, throwing them over my
shoulder, we went in the direction of Rowno.
The
highway went over a bridge where police were checking identification
documents and asking where we were heading. One policeman, on
hearing that we were going towards Wilno, became very friendly as he
himself was from Wilno. He gave us the address of his family, asking
us to tell them that, up until this time, he was alive and healthy.
He also informed us that, walking along the highway, we would have
to be very careful and watch the sky for enemy planes as the German
planes were shooting with machine guns at anything that moved. He
told us that on the highway to Warsaw there were many private cars,
bullet-ridden, and near them quite often suitcases, clothing and
sometimes even money. He advised us that, after spotting planes, to
leave the highway immediately and look for shelter between trees or
shrubs. If there were none near us, just fall to the ground and not
move. Worriedly, we continued our travel. Marushka put on her
glasses and walked in front, being the observer. I followed with
the suitcases, as a supply column should.
After
many hours, with sweat dripping into my eyes and my observer walking
with head bent low and dragging her dusty feet, we came to the
suburbs of Rowno.
The
streets were crowded. There were evacuees everywhere with their
suitcases and rucksacks. They were sitting on steps in front of
shops, they were crowding the pubs, forming groups, asking each
other for information. Mainly they were men of conscriptable age.
Here
I heard for the first time that this age group had orders to retreat
to the east, away from the approaching Front.
Here
one could see miners' hats from Silesia, tram conductors from Warsaw
and Krakow, many railway employees and postmen. The crowd was
disorientated. Nobody knew for certain what
to do with oneself. Tiredness and exasperation showed on every
face.
"If
only the army would take us, at least we would know what to
do," was the bitter comment.
The
streets were packed with military cars and trucks, as well as with
groups of evacuees, children and belongings. There were signs of
previous bombings. Many houses were in ruins - some were still
burning. We rested a while on a fence and then continued towards the
station.
Suddenly,
in the street I saw my old University friend.
"George,
how are you?" I called out, being very happy to see him and
thinking that now we would have a friend for company on our journey.
I introduced Marushka as they had not met before.
"Where
have you come from?" I asked.
"From
Warsaw, as an evacuee."
"Will
you come with us, back to Wilno?"
"No,
I cannot now."
"Why
not?"
"My
wife, who ..." but I interrupted "Nata is here too? That
is splendid; we will all go together." His wife, whom I had
known for a long time, was also a student with us in Wilno.
"We
can't go now," he explained, "she is ill ... she will soon
have a baby. We decided to stay here. I found a place in a village
near Rowno. You stay with us for a few weeks and we will go together
later. I have even been planning a safe, cheap and comfortable
route."
"Which
way?"
"Floating
down the Horyn, through all the Polesia. The Horyn passes not far
from here. It is deep and one can paddle down as far as Dawigrodek."
"Not
a bad idea, but we are in a hurry and can't wait. Anyway I already
have train tickets to Wilno."
"I
don't think you will be able to go by train," he told us in his
characteristic, phlegmatic way. "There are many people waiting
for the train for the last few days. But you should enquire."
"Will
you go with us?"
"Sure
I will."
We
continued on our way to the station, talking about recent events.
Suddenly we heard approaching aircraft. We spotted nine planes
immediately. They were flying in formation towards Rowno. We rushed
along, looking for some shelter or a house. The nearest, a
two-storey, brick house had no shelter. I tried the door and it was
not locked. The house was empty as everyone had left. I looked into
the rooms and went through the kitchen to the back yard. They must
have left only a short while ago as a meal was still cooking on the
stove. The dull growl of the three-engine planes thundered gloomily
above our heads. I ran back and we decided to await our fate here.
In this by now common situation, we were seized with the feeling of
utter helplessness. This small house offered no guarantee for
survival. Before our eyes were the ruins of brick houses in Rowno.
However there was nothing we could do, so we just closed the door
and sat down on the steps to wait.
After
the last raid in Krzemienice, Marushka was more nervous and
frightened. She was feeling sick - the sight of the wounded and dead
had been a shock. We waited for what seemed a very long time. Then
we could hear the bombing; it had started again. Some bombs were
close, others were further away. The house shook and glass from the
windowpanes was breaking. Marushka was pressing towards me and I
hugged her closely. Distressing seconds passed. Would the
destruction reach us? We had the feeling of being in a closed box,
not knowing what was happening nearby. Some bombs were falling in
series of threes and fours. We could also hear machine guns not far
away, probably ours, trying to shoot down a plane. At last the
thunder subsided and the growl of the planes stopped.
We
opened the door and looked out. No planes were visible, but around
us were many columns of smoke. Slowly, people started, to emerge
from their hiding places.
We
continued towards the station. Alas, of the station only ruins,
clouds of dust and smoke were left. On the platform were bits of
furniture, ceiling and plenty of broken glass. Between the railway
lines were big crates, twisted rails and torn portraits of our
President and both Field Marshals.
This
meant the finish to our train travel. Sad and depressed, we said
goodbye to my friend and returned to town, seeking some
accommodation. With great difficulty, we found a room with a single
bed in a small hotel. Exhausted, both physically and mentally, we
sat dawn on the bed, leaning against the wall, and started to think
about our situation. It was not enviable. Home was 400 km. away. To
walk with two suitcases was hopeless. To wait here for a couple of
days, hoping that the railway lines would be repaired? Marushka was
quite definite that she did not want to stay in Rowno. I found that
one couldn't buy food for any money. Eventually we agreed to leave
Rowno the next day at dawn. Of course we intended to walk, hoping
for a lift and maybe finding a station where trains were still
departing. Marushka hurried down the street to get some material to
make a rucksack as walking for any length of time with suitcases was
out of the question. She returned with some striped pieces of
fabric, usually used for making mattresses. We made a bag resembling
a rucksack with shoulder straps. Into it we crammed the most
necessary things and the rest, including two leather suitcases, the
hotel maid exchanged for a handful of salt.
We
slept dead-to-the-world and, feeling rested, the next morning left
Rowno at dawn. The morning was cold and misty. The streets were
lined with black, smouldering cinders from the previous bombing. On
some fences were placards and, although dirty with smoke, they still
colourfully displayed scenes of thousands of planes flying to the
West and huge tanks smashing German fortifications. I remembered the
first days in Warsaw. Propaganda and Reality. What a deceptive
picture they represented now. Where are our planes, our powerful
tanks? Alas, only on posters.
After
leaving Rowno, the highway led north. We had 400 km before us. Our
destination, although very far, was quite definite. As it was not
hot yet, we could walk fast. Upon reaching the main highway we
started to see more evacuees, the majority of them also walking -
some choosing small side tracks and some peasant carts drawn by
tired, scraggy horses, laden to the top. It was not possible to get
a lift. The evacuees flowed down the highway, some singly, some in
groups and even in columns. Some were fleeing the Front, others were
returning home. Most were looking for a way out of this snare which
the zig-zagging broken Front line had created.
It
was impossible to get any kind of food. The villages and hamlets
were stripped clean of food and their inhabitants irritated and
tired by constant demands for food. Some even refused a drink of
water.
In
the afternoon, already fairly tired, we arrived in Aleksandria. We
rested on the steps of a beer hall. We were covered with sweat and
dirt and our eyes were sore. We felt rather pessimistic. We had made
20 km with another 380 to go.
I
still had a few hundred zloty. Maybe we could hire a cart? Marushka
went to look around. In the meantime I took out all my maps which I
had acquired in Warsaw and began to study our route. I found
Aleksandria and noted with astonishment that it was situated on the
River Horyn. I glanced around, looking for the river. Only now did I
notice the landscape. This partly burned, poor, eastern type little
town lay on a gentle rise surrounded by meadows. Through the meadows
wound a wavy line of trees and bushes, almost hiding with their
green canopy the silvery waters of the Horyn River.
Near
the town, along the river, was a very large park. Behind old oaks
and chestnut trees I could see white walls of an old manor. I looked
back to the map which I was holding between my legs. In the
beginning the Horyn made a turn to the west but, after a few bends,
flowed straight north and joined the Pripet River in the same
direction as our route to Wilno. Maybe we could float down the Horyn?
This possibility seemed very attractive; therefore I was not
disappointed with the news Marushka brought. Nobody would give us a
horse as the army was taking horses from the roads. Also nobody
would leave their home as one did not know if once one departed, one
would be able to return.
Somebody
had been able to get a horse and cart the day before to go to
Kostopol, 30 km away, and it had cost 1,000 zloty! In reply I showed
Marushka the map and told her about the intended project, pointing
out the advantages. Firstly, we would have our own cheap transport
and, secondly, we would not use the overcrowded ways and therefore
not be depleted of food by evacuees. Besides, going by boat is a
very pleasant sport.
"Just
think," I was saying, full of enthusiasm, "no dust, no
highway, no bombs. Instead of bombers, cranes will be soaring above
our heads - instead of submarines, trout will whisk past and a
violet moon will shine on the flood. In our hollowed out trunk we,
hugging each other, will float on like lovers in a cheap
romance."
Marushka
accepted my project. I don't know if she was influenced by the
vision of the cranes or the absence of submarines but she accepted
it happily.
With
the decision made, we felt a return of energy. I put my maps away
and, holding hands, we went in search of a boat as without it our
plans would fail. Near the park stood a hovel thrown together from
charred boards, the roof made with old, rusted iron sheets. Through
the wall stuck a metal pipe from which smoke was coming. We came
nearer. A thin woman in a dirty blouse was cooking something in oil
and the smell of fish was very strong. With her sleeves she
constantly cleaned her eyes as they, were weeping from the smoke
coming from the stove straight into her face. In the; corner of this
room was a plank bed covered with straw and pillows. A small fir
table completed the furnishing of this shanty. In front of the
hut, small children were playing. Before the shanty stood a crate,
turned upside down, and on it sat an old fisherman with a pipe in
his mouth.
I
turned to him and, without any preliminaries, asked "Mister, I
was told that you have a boat for sale and would like to buy
it."
He
did not reply immediately but looked at his wife, then at me, gave a
few puffs on his pipe, spat over his left shoulder, wiped his
moustache with his sleeve, and asked me in a heavy Ukrainian dialect
"Where would you be from?"
"From
Warsaw.”
"Why
do you need a boat?"
I
told him about our plans, explaining how hard it would be to
continue our travels by foot.
"It
will be hard-going with a canoe on the Horyn. She is a lazy river -
there is hardly any current."
"Is
she deep?"
"Deep
she is, very deep. One can't reach the bottom."
Offering
him a cigarette, I came to business.
"So
what about this canoe?"
"She
is not a real canoe but she can go on the Horyn. Yes, I do have
one."
"Would
you sell her?"
"First
you should look at her. Maybe you won't like her."
"Where
is she? Far?"
"There,
under the bushes near the river."
"Could
we have a look?"
"If
you want to, we can go."
He
got up heavily, filled his pipe, took a piece of coal from the fire
which he put into the pipe, again gave a few puffs, spat, and turned
towards the river. He pointed out to us the dugout canoe that was
lying upside down in the bushes. I had a look. Her bottom looked old
and showed damage, here and there patched with iron sheets. I turned
her over. It was a hollowed-out log from some big tree, dark with
age. Very primitive. She reminded one more of a trough, than a boat.
"Is
she leaking?" I asked, looking with distrust at some rotten
boards.
"Maybe
she will let a few drops through. She dried out in the sun but,
after some time in the water, she should hold."
"How
much do you want?" I asked, kicking the bottom with my shoe.
Instead of replying, he first gave a few more puffs, spat again and
asked cautiously, "How much will you give?"
"I
don't know” I replied honestly. "I have never bought a boat
in my life."
He
thought for a while, scratching his head.
"Say
thirty zloty. Will that be too much?"
“All
right," I agreed immediately, " but you should add
oars.”
He
seemed quite happy. He was expecting to have to haggle about the
price. Now he replied immediately.
"An
oar is lying behind me but and I will even add a punting pole for
pushing." The business was completed. Our project now became a
reality. Going back to the house, I asked the fisherman to whom the
park and manor belonged.
"Here
lives the great lord, Prince Lubomirski. This is Aleksandria."
"Is
it a great property?"
"He
owns thousands of acres, many farms, spread through three counties.
He is a great man. Even the senior constable greets him with a deep
bow."
"You
are neighbours?" I asked, smiling, as his shanty stood right
behind the park fence.
He
replied with bitterness, "It is not an easy life with such a
neighbour. He is not much of a man - he is a bloody
aristocrat."
"Was
it your hut which burned down?" I asked, pointing to the
charred remains of a nearby hut.
"Yes,
all my homestead burnt down."
"Surely
not now, during the war?"
Sitting
down on the upturned wooden box, he started to tell his story.
"It would be nearly a year ago when there was a great fire in
Aleksandria. Most of the houses and huts were burned down. Only the
palace of the Prince remained. It was a great disaster for us. I, my
wife and seven children were left with only the clothes on our
bodies and without a roof. We went to the Mayor for help. In the
shire they gave all of us some money and people started to rebuild
their homes. I also wanted to build a hut but the council would not
give me a permit."
"Why
not? I asked, astonished.
"The
Prince had forbidden it. He wanted to extend his park and our hut
was in the way. Then, when the hut burned down he used this
opportunity and told the council not to give a permit for
building."
I
could not believe it. "How can he? It is your land, isn't
it?"
"Mine
and not mine. My grandfather lived here but they say that, according
to the law, it is serf's land - it is ours but belongs to the
Prince."'
"But
you have to live somewhere. They must give you land somewhere
else."
He
gave an ironic smile. "I went to many offices, even to the
Voivode (title of the head of an administrative division). I wanted
to fall on my knees before the Prince. And what? Nothing. The
Voivode sent me to the council and, from there, they sent me to the
Prince. The Prince did not speak to me.
“Who
am I? Just a peasant the Prince does not speak with such.
“In
the kitchen of the palace they told me to go to the administrator. I
went there. The administrator was polite - I can't say otherwise. He
asked me to sit down, looked in the books and explained;
"How
much land have you got?"
"Seven
and a half acres," I told him.
"Then
you will get ten, but not here," he told me. "You will
leave this land, man, because the Prince needs it. We will give you
another piece of land across the river near the rectory."
"I
don't care,” I said, “as long as the land is not worse than this
one."
"This
you will have to settle with the priest. He is a good man you know,
the priest. I will give you a paper and the priest will allot the
land. His land also belongs to the Prince, like yours. Everything
will be alright."
I
thanked him many times and went home to share the good news with my
wife. Next morning was a Sunday and I went to the priest straight
after Mass. I kissed his hand and gave him the paper from the
administrator. He put his glasses on and started reading, and then
he yelled "What - I have to give away the presbytery land? This
land is under type administration of the diocesan chancery. I do the
ploughing, and the sowing and now somebody comes and wants to take
the land away. I will not give it,” he screamed. "Never. I
don't care about your paper. The boss of this land is the diocesan
chancery. Go there, good man. The land is not mine," he
continued, without screaming. "I am only the caretaker of the
Church property.” He gave me the paper and went back to the house.
"Again
I went back to the administrator," the fisherman continued,
"and repeated what the priest had told me and the administrator
said, “That is not our business any more. You have the paper
stating that the Prince will give you even more than you possessed
before. If the priest does not give it to you, go to the office and
ask them to help you.”
"It
made my blood boil. I threw the paper to the ground and left. We
built this hut on our land and I am not going to move from here!
He
continued, his voice full of sadness and bitterness "Five of my
sons are now fighting at the front and I don't even know if they are
still alive. We were told to defend our home and Fatherland. And
where is our native home? Whose home are my sons defending? The
Prince's! This bloodsucker. There is no justice, sir, no justice on
this earth. Where should I welcome my sons if they come home from
the front? Here, in this hovel?"
This
story of a simple fisherman touched us greatly. We were unable to
give him advice. We only wished him a better future after the war
and left, carrying the boat and oars along a narrow path. According
to the Constitution, this path was the boundary line between the
property of two equal citizens - the Prince and the fisherman.
Whilst
lowering the boat into the water we had our first unpleasant
surprise. A passing peasant informed us that after the first bend
there was a railway bridge, under which the army would not permit
anyone to pass. I went to find out. It was true. Less than a
kilometre away was a railway bridge, surrounded by barbed-wire,
which extended into the river. The bridge was patrolled. We hired a
cart and carried the boat beyond the bridge.
We
had overcome the first obstacle but lost many hours. We covered the
bottom of the boat with plenty of straw and I, as the oarsman, took
the place in the back with Marushka as ballast, sitting on our
rucksack in the middle. I pushed away from the bank and the boat
turned lazily towards the centre of the river. I hoped that there a
rapid current would carry her quickly. We knew that our boat could
not be fast but we felt let down by the River Horyn. It was such a
lazy river that sometimes we were unable to tell the direction in
which it was floating. The so-called blessed current pushed us no
more than a kilometre per hour. Marushka, always fond of
calculations, informed me that, depending only on the current, we
would reach the river mouth in one and a half months. To get a
little more speed, Marushka moved to the back with the rucksack; the
bow lifted and I started to row strongly. Luckily for us, I had been
rowing a kayak fairly frequently. Our boat started to move a lot
faster. The river in this place was not wide not more than ten to
fifteen metres from bank to bank. The great advantage was that the
river was deep; the shallow banks gave way immediately to a much
greater depth. Horyn gave the impression of being a channel rather
than a river. Before we had time to be satisfied with the pleasure
of boating, it began to get dark. As we were passing a bend where
the river touches a road, we saw a man with his shirt off, rinsing
his soapy face. He raised his hand and called to us, asking where we
were going. He was very happy to hear that we were proceeding
towards Wilno.
"I,
too, am going to Wilno. I am from Wilno. Please take me with you. I
will help rowing." I slowed down and looked at Marushka. This
was a possibility we had not included in our plans.
"Do
you have a lot of luggage?" I asked, hesitantly. "No, only
this bag,” pointing to a small bag lying in the grass. "You
can see yourself that this boat is very small and an extra load may
ground it."
"No,
it will not go under" he said, very assured. "I am not
heavy." He rinsed his face, dressed hurriedly, probably
thinking that all had been settled. I had nothing against a try. On
such a river one had to row constantly and an additional oarsman
would be welcome. I could not count much on Marushka who was a much
better pianist than an oarswoman.
We
looked him over. He was fairly young, rather nondescript with a fat
face, irregular features and dark hair combed back. I discovered
later on that he was 27 years old.
"I
am Adam Mickiewicz," shaking our hands vigorously he introduced
himself. Adam Mickiewicz was the name of the greatest Polish poet.
This name surprised us and I felt like calling out "Oh, bard
come to our silent boat and we will float down together to Wilno,
the town of your youthful dreams," because the famous poet
spent his academic years in Wilno. Slowly and very carefully we sat
down in the boat as we did not know how much she would hold. First
came Marushka who, being the lightest, sat in the front, then our
new companion and, lastly, myself. The boat sat rattier deep, barely
a handbreadth above the water. Although more stable, she became much
slower.
It
became dark and we could hear some explosions away in the west. They
began singly, then closer together and, after a while, a continuous
thunder. We were in no doubt that we were hearing the Front as the
sky in the west was clear, with nothing like a storm in sight. I
changed places with our new companion. We had to pass each other in
a very narrow place, holding onto the sides of the boat. Marushka
watched carefully, trying to adjust the balance. The Bard, as we
called him, being the guest climbed over me and, taking my place,
started to row, full of energy and experience. I took my maps and
tried to adjust them to our position. I wanted to know where the
Front was. According to my reading, the thunder from the west was
somewhere near Lick. Our Horyn was running quite a few kilometres
away from it and then gave a sharp turn to the north-east. We
decided to continue through the night, hoping to pass the Front
before it came any nearer.
The
evening dusk gave place to a dark night. On the western horizon
flares from the exploding shells began to appear and then came the
glow of fires. Our rowing became more vigorous and we changed places
frequently. The sky from the east was covered with clouds, only a
few stars being visible. On the bank the bulrushes and shrubs
started to weave and bend and the wind was getting stronger. It
became colder and heavy drops of rain were falling noisily into the
river. A storm was about to start. The rain began to pelt down
violently whilst thunder and lightning came from all sides. Front
and storm seemed to have united. The rumble of the artillery was
overshadowed by the roar of the storm. The lightning cut through the
clouds - even the light from the explosions looked paler. The
lightning was cutting the darkness, the fires were illuminating the
horizons and the heavy rain was screening all. We were wet to the
bone. We were navigating by feel and touch. Our boat stopped
suddenly, pressed against some thing. We had probably taken a blind
arm of the Horyn.
We
felt lost between the shrubs and reeds, trying to find the main
current. The rain pelted in our faces and there was water above our
ankles in the dug-out canoe. We retraced our route but, again, no
current. Where the hell was the river proper? Was it a bewitched
swamp? At last the canoe was free of weeds. The clean, clear water
suggested that we were in the proper stream. But the next question
was; in which direction should we go? Horyn was so slow that at
night it was impossible to see the direction of the current. The
Bard was tearing pieces off some letters and throwing them in the
river and I lighting matches which were constantly going out, tried
to find the direction of the current. The waves moving backwards and
forwards made the bits of paper hover in the same place. We were
quite disorientated. When one of the lightning flashes illuminated
the nearby bank, we saw some huts through the curtain of rain. We
decided to stop and look for shelter in the village. We managed to
reach the bank, lifted the dug-out and, taking our belongings and
the oars, set out to the village. It was near midnight. Everyone was
asleep and the houses securely locked. The near Front made everyone
even more cautious and frightened of gangs. The occupants of the
first few huts we tried refused us permission to enter. At last
someone took pity on us. It was one of the huts on the outside of
the village. The peasant, without coming out, pointed to the barn.
Wet and tired, we fell onto the straw. We could not change into
anything dry, as nothing was dry. When we got warm, hugging each
other, steam began to evaporate from our wet clothing. Thus finished
our first day on the river trail.
Next
morning we got completely dry in the hut of the owner and continued
our journey. The morning was misty and wet but cleared to a sunny
day. We were warm and dry and our spirits started to rise. At last
the river turned to the north, the roars and explosions quietened
down and we floated quickly along the beautiful river.
On
the way we met another boating enthusiast. Compared to our dug-out,
his was a liner, it even had a funnel. From far away this funny
contraption looked like a miniature Noah's Ark. We pulled as
strongly as we could to catch up and have a good look. This was not
difficult as the ark moved very slowly and majestically. It
certainly was a unique navigational object. Two dugouts like ours
were joined by a bridge made out of planks. At the back was a cabin
with a window and a sheet-iron pipe from which, like a steamboat,
clouds of steam poured. In the front the cabin was open. Near the
opening stood an iron stove, then a stool and, deeper in, a plank
bed made up and with pillows. On the first gangway sat a young
woman, peeling potatoes – probably the wife of the ark owner. A
few children played next to her. The captain of this Horyn yacht was
a young suntanned fellow in a torn shirt. With his dishevelled hair
and shapeless beard, he looked like a Robinson Crusoe. He was busy
fixing baits to many fishing rods hanging around the deck. The long
pole fixed to the back deck indicated the way of steering this odd
raft. It was hard to overtake it as she took up all current space
and our canoe could just squeeze through, touching the bank. We
greeted each other with
full marine courtesy. We started talking. He was also an evacuee
going with all his family to relatives in Pinks, a city in
north-east Poland. He went ahead and we stopped to have something to
eat, finishing all our food supply. We were helped considerably by
our bard who had only a piece of bread left. Our passenger was not
talkative and a rather lazy companion. He was a Bachelor of Law and
assured me that he knew me from Wilno University but I could not
remember him, even with this exceptional name. He only came fully
alive when eating and therefore all we learned about him was during
meal times.
The
Horyn was running through widespread meadows. Here the Horyn was
straight as an arrow, going right into the large disc of the setting
sun. It was beautiful. The large trees on both banks were like a
canopy, almost touching each other. Huge misshapen willows like old
hags with dishevelled hair were washing their branches in the stream
and their twisted roots drinking the water. The whitish reeds,
rustling slightly in the light breeze, had an overpowering smell.
Frightened frogs jumped with a loud splash into the river and flocks
of wild ducks flew over the meadow looking for a good resting spot
for the night.
The
war, our worries and the objective of our journey were forgotten as
we simply floated towards the sun on golden, placid waters.
That
night we dossed down in a small cottage situated on a hill which
seemed to guard the fords of the river from the side of the vast
plain.
Our
host was a Czech who, through some quirk of fate, had settled down
in marshy Polesia. He spoke in a dialect of his own making - Czech,
Polish and Ukrainian. He had forgotten part of his own
Czechoslovakian, had never learned Polish properly and had to use
the Ukrainian language. His wife was from Georgia, U.S.S.R.
We
were very hungry so Marushka offered her nice multi-coloured scarf
in exchange for milk, eggs and boiled potatoes. We had already
learned that the peasants here were reluctant to accept money and
most business transactions were on the basis of barter. We had all
eaten our fill and, what was still left was devoured by our bard.
That night we slept in the barn on soft hay. Early next morning I
bought from the Czech a fly and hook attached to a line a few metres
long. After teaching her how to cast and hold the line, the serious
duty of angler was given to Marushka. We were quite excited and
constantly asking her if she could feel the pull of a fish, if she
had caught something, but to no avail.
In
the meantime the boat took on more and more water and we somehow had
to put our things higher. We could not find any specific hole; the
old boat was simply leaking. We had to bail with only a cup at hand.
This was an additional duty for Marushka who, disheartened as an
angler, hardly watched the line. It was nearly noon when she called
out "Got it". We understood immediately. I jumped aver the
bard to the bow. Marushka was pale from excitement and explained
that she had felt a sudden pull on the line and a resistance. I
grabbed the line. Certainly there was resistance but I could haul in
the line. Therefore it could not be roots. I told Marushka to make a
place for me and asked the bard to push towards the bank. My heart
was pounding. When hauling I sometimes felt the resistance go slack.
"It
must be a pike." I called excitedly. "It feels like a
really big catch."
"We
will cook it the Jewish way with stuffing and butter and eggs,”
called the bard, licking his lips. Now the last
tug and out of the dark depths came ... an old rusty bucket with
a hole in its middle. I started cursing and threw the bucket back
into the river and, going back to my place, told Marushka to go to
hell with her fishing. For a while the frayed line trailed behind,
then disappeared, and we gave up this unproductive business.
The
Horyn started to turn and twist in many bends. Sometimes it took a
few twisting miles to cover a distance of 50 metres. Our dug-out was
too heavy to carry across the land. To make the boat speedier and
lighter, we left only one man in the boat, the other two going by
land.
After
some bends, near a small bridge we once again saw Noah's Ark and our
Robinson Crusoe. We were very astonished and couldn't understand how
he had managed to pass us on his raft in this slow stream. He
explained it quite simply.
“Because
we travel in a house, we don't have to stop for the night looking
for accommodation. We don't stop, we travel through the night.” At
present he was in trouble as the small country bridge was very low
and he was unable to pass under it. After several attempts, he
decided to lower the roof of his cabin. The bridge was no trouble
for our dug-out and we continued wishing each other a lucky journey
without further interruptions. This was our last meeting - we never
spotted the ark with its iron funnel again.
That
day we covered quite a long stretch. At dusk when it was time to
look for a sleeping place, we were passing through uninhabited
wilderness. The evening mist was covering the meadows and above the
river hung thick vapour when before us, suddenly emerged an old
water mill. It was our first mill.
A
plank was thrown over the weir. The old mill settled deeply into the
ground. Foaming water flowed from the wheel. The Horyn formed a
large pond here.
On
the plank appeared some human shapes. They went in a single file,
stepping carefully on the plank. We pushed the boat nearer to have a
better look. Through the heavy mist we could distinguish Polish
soldiers but they did not carry arms. Their coats were unbuttoned
and some walked heavily, leaning on wooden sticks. They walked in
silence. They were like phantoms produced by the falling dusk. Their
single file appeared out of the mist covering the meadows. Bent and
treading heavily along the river they disappeared once again,
swallowed by the heavy vapours of the river. The sound of their
footsteps ceased when they reached the grass.
We
had a feeling of foreboding. Something had happened. For the last
few days, travelling through the wilderness, missing well-trodden
tracks, we had no idea what was happening. We wanted to find out. I
jumped onto the bank and went towards the mill but they were all
gone. I intended to follow them when a new file of soldiers
appeared, coming towards us. We began to ask them questions. Where
were they going? Why without arms. Had the war finished?
They
did not want to talk. One solider answered. “For us the war is
ended." He spoke with a decided Warsaw accent. "Why?"
I continued asking. "Have the Germans surrounded you?"
"No,
the Front has not even reached us. Our commander demobilised the
company and told us to go home. We hid our arms and are now going
home."
"I
don't understand. Did the commander think that there was no sense
any more in fighting?"
“Yes.”
"But
you said that the Front had not even reached you."
"Sure,
but the Russians had hit us in the back. The whole Soviet Army is
advancing to meet the Kraut. From one side the Front and, from the
back, the Bolsheviks. We can't fight on two fronts. We are going
home."
"What
are you saying? Did the Soviet intervene?"
"If
you continue with your journey, you will meet them." He
finished talking and followed the others.
"Where
are you going?" asked Marushka.
"We
are going to the west," he called back.
We
could not understand and were lost in conjectures. Was it true what
we had heard? Maybe the Soviets had declared war on Germany? We
headed towards a village. The bard stayed with the boat. We were
accepted in the first house and given sleeping place in the garret,
covered with fresh hay. We brought our belongings, hid the boat
between the bushes and, with our host, sat down on a wide bench
around the table. His wife cooked us potatoes and gave us a large
pot of sour milk. We asked about news and the Front line. He could
say nothing definite. He advised us to go to his neighbour who was
manager of a co-operative. As his neighbour had a radio and,
according to our host, was an educated man, we went there
immediately after our meal. He was standing in front of his house,
leaning against the fence. We introduced ourselves and asked for
information.
"Don't
you know that today Molotov, Prime Minister of the Soviet Union,
announced on the air that the Soviet Army is entering Poland."
"What
are you saying?" I asked, amazed. "Did the Soviet Union
declare war on Poland?"
"No."
"Is
she coming to help Poland against the Germans?"
"No."
"For
what reason did the Soviet Army enter Poland? Didn't Molotov
say?"
"He
said that the aim of the Soviet Union is to liberate Western
Ukrainians and White Russia from the oppression of the Polish lords
and safeguard these countries from war activities and ruin."
"Has
the Soviet Army already crossed the Polish border?" Marushka
asked.
"Not
only have they crossed, but they are already not far from us."
"And
what news from the Front? Does
the fighting continue?" she was asking.
"I
don't know where the Front is at present. I heard yesterday that
Warsaw is still fighting, that we are still holding Hel and
Westerplatte. But rumour has it that Lublin is already in enemy
hands and that German tanks are near Luck."
"Did
you hear by any chance if our army is fighting the Russians or are
they neutral?"
"I
don't know. Today soldiers were passing our village. They were
without arms, going home. They did not say much. One man told me
that they were given orders to go home and to avoid conflicts with
the Soviet Army. They don't want to speak about the approaching
Soviet Army as it might incite the people to revolt. One heard that
there were already instances of assault at the frontiers. Please, do
realise that in this region the population is mainly White Russian.
I am one myself. There are many here who are waiting the coming of
the Soviets with anticipation. I live here permanently and I work
amongst the peasants so I know their mood."
He
was called to the house and we went back to bed down. Marushka and I
did not sleep much that night as there was so much to think about.
Only the bard slept heavily, full of potatoes. The fate of the world
did not concern him much.
It
was the night of the eighteenth of September, 1939.
Next
day, about noon, we met another obstacle on the river an abandoned
mill. The dam and the derelict sluice gates were still there and the
waterfall was too high for safe floating down. To carry the heavy
boat overland was not tempting either. I decided to negotiate the
obstacle with an empty boat. Marushka tried to dissuade me, looking
distrustfully at the rapids which were two metres high. I would not
give in. We emptied the boat, I undressed and pushed the boat toward
the middle of the river directly opposite the waterfall. Marushka
and the bard were watching, full of attention, from honorary seats
of a tribune the ruins of the old mill. The main stream caught the
boat and pushed it faster and faster towards the falls. The noise
became louder. I grabbed the edges of the boat, sitting right in the
back.
My
dug-out was hanging in the air with the nose pointing straight down.
A second of uncertainty and the boat settled down nicely, like a
duck, right in the middle of the stream. From the ruins, my audience
gave me a great cheer. I stood up proudly to give them a deep bow
and ... toppled over into the water. This was my first swim in the
Horyn.
Afterwards,
when we were preparing to continue on our way, the bard ran to some
nearby huts looking for some food, especially eggs which he simply
adored. He never missed an opportunity to ask peasants he happened
to meet for eggs. This time he got six and started pressing us for a
stay so that he could cook them. The evening was cold and we were
rowing strongly to get warm.
We
stopped at a fisherman's boatshed. On the bank were two boats, a
fish trap and a large net drying on sticks. We decided to spend the
night here. The countryside was beautiful. On a steep hill was the
fisherman's cottage. The fisherman welcomed us very hospitably. He
was dressed in the custom of this region. He wore bastshoes made
from birch trees and old linen clouts (bastshoes are made from inner
bark of a tree and clouts
- a long piece of cloth to protect one's feet and legs). He gave us
the barn for the night. His wife brought fresh milk, straight from
milking, and some cold potatoes. The bard, of course, asked for
eggs. When the bard heard that there was a village nearby, he
disappeared and we prepared for the night. The barn was nearly empty
- there was not even straw. We bedded down on a cart with a bit of
straw and our rucksack for a pillow. The bard came late but in a
good mood and talkative so we guessed that he must have been lucky
in finding some eggs.
It
was a very cold night and our teeth were chattering. The only cover
for both of us was Marushka's overcoat. At the crack of dawn we were
up. Even the wooden fence was covered with fine white threads of
rime. The hut on the hill dominated the neighbourhood. At the foot
of the hill flowed our Horyn, overgrown with shrubs and reeds,
around us meadows covered with hoar frost and, on the horizon, the
dark line of a forest. The first sunbeams were shining brilliantly,
spreading their golden glow over the calm water. The fisherman was
ferrying some soldiers to the other side of the river. They
dispersed in different directions, each going hurriedly towards
their home. For them the war was over.
This
day we were really hungry. The evening meal had been inadequate, the
night was very cold and we left early on an empty stomach as we had
hardly anything left to barter. The bard was quiet, scanning the
bank for some habitation. Marushka was chewing an old crust which
she had found in her pocket when looking for her glasses. At last we
saw a forester's cottage on the edge of the forest. We sent the bard
to enquire. Shortly he began waving his hands, indicating that we
should follow. In the house was a woman with three children. She was
Polish and from the city of Lublin. Her husband was a gamekeeper. He
took part in the war of independence during the First World War.
They had lived there for some years. Now they were very worried
about the future.
She
talked incessantly. "You know that the peasants could kill us
all. They are very angry with my husband for all the fines he has
issued to them for poaching logs and taking wood away. The Court
gave them jail sentences and my husband was called as a witness.
They have threatened many times that they will get their revenge. My
goodness, do you know that they are all waiting for the Bolsheviks?
I have heard that already some armed bands are being organised. They
say that they will kill all the masters and their servants. My
husband does not sleep at home any more - he is afraid. Now he has
gone to find out how far the Bolsheviks have advanced. He has been
gone such a long time. Mother of God, maybe he has already been
killed. What will I do with three children? Jagusia is only two
years old."
She
was pouring out her sorrows, mainly addressing my wife, as we men
were distracted by a big loaf of bread and some cheese and eggs
which were lying on a shelf.
“Oh,
my Godfather, Holy Mary. My milk will curdle," she exclaimed
suddenly and ran to the stove.
We
considered this a very good moment to stop her story by changing the
subject.
My
wife asked her timidly, "Could you maybe sell us something to
eat? We are very hungry."
"Certainly,
madam, everything will be looted anyway. I will not talk about
selling. You just eat anything which is in my lowly house. Oh, my
God, tomorrow we might all be dead. Who could think of selling in
times like this?"
Who
knows how long we might have had to listen to this torrent of
lamentation but our bard had a ready approach. He was unable to wait
any longer.
"Can't
we fry some chicken?" he interrupted. "There are so many
running around, maybe you could give us some?"
We
were stunned but the hospitable wife of the gamekeeper did not
hesitate and offered us four! We were thunderstruck, but not for
long and started to work. The bard was killing the chickens,
Marushka was plucking them and I entertained the hostess. The work
was well distributed - perhaps I had the hardest job. Never since
have we eaten such a wonderful meal. Nicely browned chicken covered
with dripping fat, fried potatoes and cucumber salad smothered with
sour cream. It was like a symphony for the senses. An unfinished
symphony, as one chicken remained uneaten. We took it with us,
thanking the hostess profusely for her reception fit for a king.
Steeped
in a blessed feeling of satiation, we let our boat proceed slowly
and lazily. After a few kilometres of such peaceful travel, we heard
some shooting from a nearby village, some shouting and someone
calling "Stop". Looking around, we saw some ten armed
peasants waving their hands and signalling us to stop. We had to. We
did not expect anything good from this armed group but there was no
way of fleeing. I banked and the peasants ran towards us. Some had
rifles, some hand grenades; amongst them were teenagers holding
sticks and stones. We were worried.
"Out
of the boat." yelled one, coming quite near.
"Hands
up." was the next order. We climbed out, putting our hands up,
facing ten hostile men. A large young man holding a hand grenade
came forward. His dirty shirt exposed a hairy chest.
"Where
are you going?" he challenged us.
"We
are evacuees from Warsaw," I replied tersely.
"Ah..."
he hesitated before the next question, "do you have arms?"
"No."
"No?
You just watch out" and, coming a step nearer, he shook his
fist with the grenade before my face.
"If
we find arms, you see the birch?" pointing towards a tree.
"That is where we will shoot you.
"Matthew,
start searching,” called another one standing nearby.
They
threw all our belongings to the ground and started searching. The
contents looked rather poorly. Some personal underwear, a frock for
Marushka, a spare pair of shoes and a manicure set which the peasant
examined very carefully and, turning to me said, full of authority
"Aha, you are an engineer!”
“A
big boss!" He probably assumed it to be a drafting set.
"Maybe
they hid some under the boat?" suggested another.
"Right.
Turn her over, brother, and we will have a look," said the
leader of the gang. They turned the boat over and still no arms.
Suddenly
one of the men standing farther away called out "Look, the
grazier is departing." "Hoj, hoj" they started
yelling excitedly. We all looked in the direction he was pointing.
On the road were a few wagons loaded with trunks, suitcases and
bags, each drawn by two horses and with thoroughbred cows tethered,
secured to the wagon. It was obvious they were from a big farm.
Without
hesitation, the leader of the gang turned and started running
towards them, calling to the others to follow him. Some followed him
immediately, others hesitated, but the heavily loaded carts looked
very tempting. They also wanted to witness the destruction of a
really great Polish farmer. At last they all left. No time to ponder
- perhaps the leader would send some of them back to guard us? We
did not know their intentions. Our fate depended on them. We turned
the boat back, threw our things in and started rowing and pushing
with the pole as fast as we could. Some cowherds from the other side
of the river who had been in the previous search tried to stop us by
throwing sticks and stones at us. We did not mind, we just
ducked the stones.
We
travelled for six kilometres and were just completing a large bend
in the river when on our left appeared a hill covered with peasant
cottages. On the top stood a small white church. It was a large
village. From the other end of the village, behind the forest, came
rifle shots. First just singly, then a whole volley, followed by
bursts of machine guns. We stopped and listened. The shooting came
from the north of the river.
We
put our heads together. It was not safe to continue and we decided
to seek information in the village. After our previous experience,
we took some precautions. Firstly we took all our maps, wound them
round a stone and threw them to the bottom of the river. There might
be another search and a new partisan gang finding maps of Europe,
Lithuania, Poland and Germany might take me for an officer or, even
worse, a spy, and could quickly wipe us out. We hid the boat amongst
deep reeds and taking only the oars, went to the village.
In
the village were only scared-looking
women standing in small groups, glancing fearfully around. They
told us that the shooting came from a nearby town, Stepan, situated
on the Horyn. The shooting was between the retreating Polish
soldiers and gangs of peasants who had obtained arms from somewhere
and were now trying to disarm the soldiers. The women explained that
the previous evening a large unit of K.O.P. (Corps of Frontier
Guards) had retreated through there. They had found some of their
mates killed by gangs, from Stepan and now decided to seek a bloody
revenge. They had surrounded the neighbouring villages, killed all
the men and burned the villages to the ground. Therefore, today men
from other villages were hiding in the forest. We were afraid to
continue by boat as it would take us directly into Stepan, the town
in revolt. To start walking through this empty and wild part of
Polesia seemed equally risky. We decided to aim for the nearest
railway line which went through Sarny, Zuniniec, Baranowicze, Lida
to Wilno. We needed a map but mine had gone to the bottom of the
river. As there was a school in the village, we hoped to find a map
there. I went with Marushka and the bard used this opportunity
to ask for eggs. The primary school was quite large. Only one lady
teacher remained as the headmaster and the other teacher had left.
They had gone west, being afraid of the approaching, Bolsheviks. She
did show us a large geographical map hanging on the wall. We found
our position relating to the railway. The teacher gave us additional
information six kilometres away was a village Komarowo and, from
there, a straight road direct to the railway station Rajewicze. As
the village was on the river, we decided to take our dug-out for the
last time. It took us only half an hour to reach this small village
which stood between the swampy woods and the river.
This
small village consisted of a few old, decrepit huts. The straw roofs
were covered with moss, grass and on some even small birches were
sprouting. Broken fences made from unhewn poles were mostly broken
down and clay pots hung from them. In front of the huts grew stunted
cherry trees. Only a little light entered through the small windows
which were mostly covered with dirty rags. Here lived the people of
bog and marshy woods Polesie. People of short posture, poor and
dirty, people who had to make their living in the forgotten district
of Poland. We went from hut to hut looking for a buyer for our
dug-out. One peasant gave us 30 eggs and a kilo of bread for it and
also shelter for the night. This part of Poland so far had hardly
any evacuees; therefore quite a number of men gathered around us,
asking questions. They were sitting on benches and puffing pipes or
smoking cigarettes hand-rolled in newspaper. It was already dark and
the hut was lit by a smouldering resinous ship stuck into the wall -
it was 'the lamp' of Polesie. Dirty children crawled on the earthen
floor. They piddled on the floor and the sticky clay dirtied their
little hands and naked behinds. The housewife, pushing a sooty cast
iron pot nearer to the edge of the stove, drained the water onto the
floor. The hut was hot and steamy.
We
spoke about the Soviets. They were awaiting them with mixed
feelings. The young ones were full of enthusiasm, the older ones
with a friendly reserve and the richer farmers with distrust.
Everyone dressed alike, in best shoes and darned shirts and all were
smoking the same hand-grown tobacco. The kulak (rich peasant) and
the poor peasant, both neighbours in the same village and often
related, but with different emotions passing through their heads.
Hidden thoughts, calculated, culled off from the propaganda of left
and right agitators.
"We
are not educated but we know the difference between the chaff and
the grain although we are only peasant," said a really old man
with a twinkle in his eyes. "The Bolsheviks would sooner take
my three cows away than give me a fourth from a richer farmer."
"But
bolshevism is the power of the labourer and the peasant. Now, here
you are the last, but there you might be the first," I
contradicted, searching for his true opinion about communism.
Some
were smiling ironically, others listened full of attention.
"I'll
tell you something," replied the old man. "Their politics
are such that, if you go to a koechoz, that means you are not an
owner any more, you are then a nationalised man. If you don't go
they will take away your land and finish you off. There you have the
power of the peasant."
"Ah,
Simon, you have the soul of a kulak," said a youngish man.
"You still haven't had enough of masters, you are just... the
master's servant." He spoke with hatred and left the hut.
"He
wants to become a Commissar," someone called out.
There
was general laughter followed by animated talk. I sat in the corner
and listened attentively. Simon would not give in. He maintained
that he would not be persuaded by red or white slogans, that he had
lived his eighty years and knew life and people. In Russia man does
not live for himself singly, but for all. But do all live for the
betterment of life for everyone? Such were the thoughts of the old
man from Komorowo, trying to separate the chaff from the grain.
That
night we slept on straw in the hut. I had never seen so many fleas
in my life. I saw them jumping straight up at least 25 cm without
any trouble. That means they can jump more than 250 times their own
height as Marushka calculated immediately. They jumped in swarms,
clutching on to our clothes, our laces and legs. We scratched and
tossed and turned but could not sleep at all. At dawn we got up
feeling seedy and longing for a smoke. We had nothing with which to
buy the home-grown tobacco. The peasant advised us to gather some
cherry leaves, dry them and smoke. This smoke was often used when
tobacco gave out. We followed his advice, dried the leaves on the
stove and rolled cigarettes in newspaper. The hot and bitter smoke
started to choke us, bringing tears to our eyes. We no longer cared
for a smoke (but, alas, not for long).
The
'straight' route to the railway was 10 km, leading through swamps
and mire, following some barely visible tracks. Our host was very
kind and offered to take us across. Breakfast consisted of milk and
some eggs which we received for the boat, and we were ready to go.