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The following story appears courtesy of and with thanks to Marushka (Maria) and Zygmunt Skarbek-Kruszewski and George (Jurek) Zygmunt Skarbek.

Midsummer of 1944. For the last time we walked along the terrace of our sunny veranda. Our turn had come. Once again we were leaving our house like other war evacuees. Burdened with heavy rucksacks we started towards the highway, pushing our bikes. Mother and Jurek came to see us off. This parting stuck in my mind for a long time. Jurek was chatting happily, sitting on the frame of my bike and ringing the bell. Mother was walking behind, kneading her handkerchief nervously. The dogs were dragging at their chains, barking madly. In front of the veranda, in a low chair, sat one of the billeted officers looking indifferent and bored at our departure. We passed the creek. On the highway the military policeman stood guard. When we came to the highway he stopped a military vehicle to check documents. As the car was empty, the soldier agreed to give us a lift to Kaunas. There was no time for further farewell. We secured our bikes and the car started to move.
Three figures were standing on the wide highway - my mother, our little son and the guard in a helmet. The distance separating us grew quickly, the figures grew smaller. Our Jurek, in his white cap, was already just a blurred spot on the long highway. We climbed the hill and far away I could still see the wavy field of rye, barley and oats that I had sown with my own bare hands. On the top of the hill we could still see our house with its white shutters, its windowpanes reflecting the sun. And that disappeared too. There was left ... only a dot on the map.
During our future homeless wandering we looked often with longing at this dot on the map, remembering the moment of our separation from our dear ones.
In Kaunas the atmosphere was very tense. Some of the German officers were already evacuated. The streets leading to the railway station were crowded with evacuees, burdened with suitcases and bundles. In front of many houses carts were being loaded. Through the city passed endless columns of evacuees from the country. Tree coves were treading awkwardly on the asphalt and dogs, scared of the city noises, were trying to hide under the carts. Barge 'bridgkas' (carts), ladder wagons and Russian telegas were going through the city to cross the bridge over the River Niemen, their peculiar noises filling the town and reverberating from the brick walls.
Our intention had been to travel by bikes, without documents, as evacuees. However we were told that trains were still leaving Kaunas in the direction of the German frontier but only people who had travel permits issued by the military were allowed over the frontier, or those who could prove that they were going to work in Germany. The second seemed easier to achieve. The 'Arbeitsamt' (employment office) had opened a new office in a former travel agency and, after years of poor results, was now reaping a good harvest. There were many volunteers looking far work and permits to enter Germany. How ironic - what the German military police were unable to achieve was achieved in a few days by the nearing Front. A long queue of men of military age, and women, were waiting in front of the new 'travel agency'. In their windows were still the old posters from Tyrol, palaces along the Rhine and old German towns. Between those old photos for the tourists was written: "See the beauty of the German towns".
The officials of the Arbeitsamt were as polite as the employees from the previous travel agency. Showing a large map of the Third Reich, they were pointing out all the beauty of different regions. Everyone was allowed to choose the place of his desired destination according to his tourist taste or his hidden political calculations. Very politely they stipulated only one condition: upon arrival you had to report to the nearest Arbeitsamt - only then were you issued with a travel permit and a free railway pass.
Our aim was Warsaw. We wanted to reach Poland and there await future events. But entrance to the General Komimissariat (the name given to central Poland) was prohibited. On the map I found the nearest point to it - it was Modlin that was shown on the map as belonging to the Third Reich. Within minutes we had nice stamped documents stating that I, as a farm labourer, and wife Maria were travelling to Germany with permanent residence in Modlin.
The transport was to leave the next day and so now the bikes were not required. At home we re-packed our rucksacks again, fighting off the generosity of my mother-in-low who tried to equip us like an expedition to the North Pole. No arguments were of use. Neither that the war would not last very long nor that we had plenty of relatives in Poland who would help us; nor the argument that it is not advisable to be overloaded with a heavy burden. She strongly believed that in Poland people were starving. Therefore, next morning we left with huge bread loaves, a few kilograms of fat and lard, butter and dry sausages plus two changes of clothing.
Again a sad parting. Our little son Roman, just over a year old, could not speak yet and was only producing some funny sounds. I didn't know what he was trying to tell us. He was laughing happily when we kissed him and waved his tiny hands. He gave us his most charming smile when we were leaving. This was the way he stayed in my mind.
The station was full of evacuees. No ticket control or information. Nobody knew anything about a transport of labourers to Germany. At the second platform stood a long military transport and some evacuees were trying to board it. This transport was going to East Prussia. Not waiting for anything else, we climbed onto the open lorries. Marushka's parents, who accompanied us to the station, heaved up the rucksacks into the lorries. As we started to climb down to have one more kiss, there was a sudden signal and the train began to move. We stayed on the train and just looked at her parents who were waving a white handkerchief. The white handkerchief was not only a sign of farewell but also a symbol of submission to the new rulers of bleeding Lithuania.
One could already hear the Front. On the River Niemen, floating towards the open sea, were bodies of German soldiers.
Our dearest ones stayed in Lithuania waiting for their destiny. Leaving them, our roads parted and we started once again on our road of evacuees.
The wagon in which we travelled was very deep - like a freighter without doors and cut-off roof. It was packed with machinery, probably from the evacuated factories. The rest was filled with boxes and ammunition on which the soldiers and evacuees were sitting. Above us was the open sky. The train was travelling fast, the wind was cool and pleasant. The start of our travel was favourable as we had expected a lot worse and going by bike along dusty, crowded roads did not seem so attractive.
The train entered the large forests of Kozlowa Ruda. The warm fir trees smelled strongly of resin. The wind died down. The white clouds from the engine were lying lazily on the top of the trees. All seemed peaceful; so good for taut nerves. But we knew that in these forests were large groups of partisans and more than one train had been derailed here. The mines hidden between the rails were a terror to the driver. We were travelling on a military transport, sitting on boxes of ammunition, looking around anxiously. The engine braked and we arrived at the station Kozlowa Ruda. Some travellers left, taking their numerous luggage. They probably intended to await the Front in some of the small villages, hidden in the forest.
The German soldiers with whom we travelled looked tired and depressed. They were not talkative but told us that the railway to Olite was cut off and therefore they had to make this detour through East Prussia to reach the front lines near the lakes of Augustowo. It was evening when we arrived in Virbalis. This was the frontier station between 'Ostland' and the Great German Reich or, to call it simply, the previous boundary between Lithuania and Germany.
On the station was a teeming mass of people. All platforms were packed with luggage and crying children hanging on to the luggage. People were trying to push in all directions looking for information about next trains. On a siding stood an open goods train. Some of the wagons were completely furnished - wide beds, robes with mirrors and crates and suitcases, tables covered with plates and food. These were the privileged evacuees, employees of the General Kommissar Ostland. Leaving the burning east, they were taking home to their Fatherland all that they were able to amass during their fat years of occupation.
Going over the iron bridge above the rails we reached the first platform where we were promptly told to leave as it was strictly for the army. In the first-class waiting room we met many Lithuanian professionals and white-collar workers. They were also evacuees, mainly from Kaunas. They had nice leather suitcases, their wives had their hair set, were nicely manicured and carried expensive fur coats over their arms. On the wall, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, hung a huge picture of Hitler. The thought of sleeping on a station was not attractive. Marushka remembered that a friend of hers was living on a nearby farm with his family - Messrs. Gromadzki. Asking for directions, we went to find them. After a few kilometres the rucksacks began to feel heavier. I don't know how long it would have taken us to cover the eight kilometres but we were lucky to be given a lift by a peasant who was returning from the mill. Sitting on the bags of flour, he brought us right into the front yard of the homestead. It was midnight. All was dark, completely quiet, no sign of life. Under the deceptive light of the moon, I examined some barns until I stumbled to the front of a house, or rather the porch which was supported by columns. All shutters were closed. This had to be the house of the owner. Shyly and gently we started knocking at the door for maybe ten minutes or more. Nobody came to the door. We started to knock louder and then even banging. Still without results. Leaving our belongings, we went in search of other doors. There were five of them. We tried them all, banging as loud as we could. The house remained silent and dead. I started swearing - gone was the shyness of an uninvited guest. I wanted to get in. After unsuccessfully trying all shutters, I noticed on the second floor two windows without shutters. Taking some twigs, I started throwing them gently on those windows, being careful not to break the glass. At last - a window opened and a human head looked out.
"Does Mr. Gromadzki live here?" I called. A female voice confirmed this. I gave our names and a short explanation. The window was shut but there was some movement from within. Between the cracks, of the shutters we could see light and at last the bolts and padlocks were removed.
In the hall we were cordially greeted by the elderly owner of the house. He was dressed in pyjamas and the housekeeper in a nightdress. She was holding a candle in her hand. Our friend was sick in bed. The explanation for the unresponsive house was quite simple. The remaining people were sleeping on the second floor with their windows facing the park and so the ground floor was empty. The friendly owner directed us to a spare bedroom where we went to sleep immediately.
It was a hundred kilometres to the Front.
Next morning after being fed and having a good wash, we went into the town for information. As we had no luggage and were clean, the police did not bother us, probably taking us for local people. All evacuees were directed to barracks where there was an information centre for transports as well as the de-lousing centre. It was a whole set of small, long buildings covered with tar-boards, surrounded by a high fence and barbed wire. Near the fence bartering was blooming. Behind the fence - well known to us - the camp life of the east labourer. Tired women hanging their washing, badly dressed and dirty children playing on the dirty ground. The gate was open. We decided that Marushka should go to enquire as her German was faultless and I would wait in a nearby street. It was nearly an hour before I saw her returning. The guard at the gate did not stop her and I relaxed. In the administration centre she met an old acquaintance from Kaunas. They had a long chat and he was able to inform her fully. To our disappointment, we learned that the last transport with civilians had left yesterday and that the border, as from last night, was closed by the S.D. (Security Service) until further notice. Permits would be issued individually after a check by S.D. Nobody seemed to know the reason for these orders. We had to wait. After returning to the homestead we found more evacuees from Kaunas. They were relatives and friends of Mr. Gromadzki. Some, like us, wanted to leave Lithuania; others, like our host, wanted to stay. They were certain that the Front could not possibly go further west, that the Germans would push the Soviets back further away from their own border. To this group, so trusting in the power of the Germans, belonged two new arrivals who had with them an unbelievable number of suitcases and a crate of bacon. They were two professors from the Kaunas University, one of them a well-known surgeon.
Our daily walks to the town brought no results. The frontiers remained closed and there was no news about a new transport for civilians.

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