大象传媒

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

Our journey was now by land. We gave a last look at Horyn and entered the empty woods. Our guide jumped nimbly in his best shoes, choosing the clumps and tussocks. We followed, stepping carefully, trying to avoid swampy holes covered with mouldy leaves. Sometimes we had to go over deep ruts and swampy streams, crossing them with the help of planks thrown over them. After a few hours we touched dry ground and a fir forest. The ground was covered with heath. Here our guide stopped, explaining that he had to go home, that we could not get lost as the road led straight to the station in Rajewicz. We all sat down for a short rest. Our guide offered us some home-grown tobacco. After we had rolled our cigarettes in newspaper, he took from his pocket a bit of flint and same tinder and a bit of metal. This was his lighter. He put the tinder on the bit of metal, holding it with his fingers and, with the other hand, he hit the flint on the iron, producing sparks. It took a while to get the tinder glowing. At the right moment he started blowing on the tinder, making something like a charcoal sponge. In this way, like cavemen, we lit our cigarettes.
Saying farewell to our guide, we continued on our own. The road was not as straight as expected and a few times we took a wrong turn but, after a few hours, we reached the outskirts of the town and could even see the railway building.
We stopped at a house to ask for water as we were very thirsty. In the house was only a frightened woman. She told us that the town had already been looted twice by armed gangs that the Soviet Army was not far away but had not reached them as yet. A delegation of townspeople had gone for help to the regular Soviet Army asking for protection against the marauding gangs. She also told us that no trains were going.
However we decided to go to the station. The streets were empty and the town deserted. At last we have the railway lines. On the station was a group of evacuees and some railway employees. They informed us that at present there was no hope of a train. No-one knew when the trains would start running as the railway was not co-ordinated by any authority. No Polish authority existed here anymore and the Soviet one had not yet arrived. Everyone was awaiting the Soviet Army. We were told that, more to the north, the Soviets had already reached the railway. Armed bands had attacked and robbed the evacuees, stripping them of all clothes and belongings. We also heard that some victims had gone to the Soviet detachment. Whenever possible, the Soviets intervened immediately and, if catching the criminal, shot him on the spot, returning all belongings to the victim. Anyway we felt much safer in a group and soon continued our journey to Sarny by foot, along the railway lines. Sometimes we met the other groups also going to the north. We saw a bombed-out goods train, torn and with blood, still standing on the rails. Part of it was on the embankment, wheels broken. Along the line were big craters and sometimes a mound with a cross. Some crosses were made from branches of fir trees, on some hung an army cap with the Polish eagle. In one place there were five single mounds with crosses put up in a row. Some birch branches were hanging over the new tombs.
On the other side of the rail stood a trackman's cottage. As the rucksack was feeling heavy, we headed there to have a rest. In the kitchen were two railway employees. They were cooking. We were hungry, they lent us a pot and gave us a few potatoes. Marushka started cooking. They told us that a few days ago the Germans bombed a big army transport moving toward Lwow. The rest of the transport was still on the rails. Many were killed and wounded. The dead ones, or rather the bits of the massacred people, were buried in a common grave.
"For whom were single graves near the mound?" I asked.
"Those are for the Polish officers killed by the Bolsheviks."
"What?" we all called out.
"Well,.." he began, "yesterday we were very frightened here. Seven officers were sleeping here. They were heading west trying to avoid the Bolsheviks. We all slept here on the floor of this room. The officers were talking through most of the night. They kept their coats on, even when lying on the floor. The hut was full of smoke. I understood from their talk that their regiment had met with the Bolsheviks. The communists ordered them to put down their arms. When their commander refused, fighting started. Some of the soldiers ran away and the rest were surrounded when Soviet reinforcements arrived. The commander did not want any more unnecessary bloodshed and agreed to lay down the arms. Ten officers from the regiment did not want to surrender and decided to fight their way through the surrounding army. They succeeded, but three were killed. Those seven arrived there during the night. They were cursing their commander and the headquarters who had not issued orders as to how to treat the Soviets. One was even crying, hitting his head with his fists. He was screaming that Poland had been treacherously betrayed. It is a brothel and not diplomacy, he was repeating, how could it happen that the Soviets hit us in the back? Where are the allies? Instead of help we are being hit in the back. The world is an atrocious gang, full of traitors and vile scoundrels and abject liars.鈥� He was sobbing like a child and we were all sorry for the youngster. Others were determined to keep their arms and to continue fighting the Germans in Warsaw.
"It was already dawn," continued the trackman, "when they calmed down and started to doze. Suddenly somebody started to bang at the door. I got up, asking who was there. 鈥淥pen up, we are soldiers,鈥� a Russian voice called. I am telling you, covered in cold sweat, I did not know what to do. I yelled into the room 鈥淏olsheviks.鈥� They were up in, seconds. One opened the window and, having their guns at the ready, they began to jump out. The pounding at the door increased. I did not know whether I should open the door or not I heard a shot behind the house. The pounding stopped, a second of quiet and then some more shots. I did not know what was happening outside. How many Russians were there? What should I do? Two of us were left - my mate and myself. All the officers had already jumped out through the window. We decided to do the same. We approached the window carefully when suddenly a machine gun opened up, the bullets spraying the room, the plaster falling off the walls. We fell to the ground by the window. A second and third machine gun started pelting our house. Sometimes a shot from a revolver replied from behind the house. The shooting lasted at least ten minutes. There was no hope of jumping out. The machine gun stopped firing, then a few single shots, and quiet. The quiet did not last long and we heard soldiers running. Some shouted orders and our house was surrounded. Something heavy was hitting the door, the door gave and some soldiers from the Red Army came in, their rifles at the ready. They had an electric torch and found us crouching under the window.
"Hands up!" came the order, then a personal search and interrogation. I thought our end had come. There were no arms, either on us or in the house. I speak Russian fluently which helped. I explained that we two live here always, that the officers came during the night and demanded a place to sleep. The Soviets were cursing the officers terribly. They said they would kill all those bastards. We were ordered to take shovels and follow them. A terrible thought crossed my mind - they will force us to dig our own grave and then shoot us. I had heard that the G.P.H. (Secret Police) were doing it. We went. By the door was a dead Russian soldier. Near the wall were three bloody bodies of our officers. One had his brain splashed on the wall as the bullets cut off his scalp. You can go and see for yourself. The next one, behind the house near the fence, seemed to be praying. About fifty steps farther, there under the tree, was another one. This was the one who was crying and telling us that he could not continue living with those traitors. Two were probably able to flee as we could not see their bodies. The Soviet officer who had been giving orders to his soldiers returned to us.
鈥淭ake these dead ones and bury them so that no trace is left of them,鈥� he ordered.
"We took a deep breath - not for ourselves were we going to dig the grave. We dragged the corpses over the track and began to dig a big hole. The officer ordered his soldiers to take their dead ones and, mounting the horses standing near the forest, turned in the direction of the village. We buried the unfortunate officers. There on the mound, the five graves in a row, that is them."
We looked at this ordinary room and shuddered. Last night between these four walls a tragedy overtook seven Polish officers. They were fighting the Germans and were killed by the Russians! They were fighting for Poland's independence and were accused of occupying western White Russia. How will the future judge them? What will history have to say? Will they be proclaimed as heroes or accused as traitors?
Anything is possible. History is written by the living. The dead ones who shaped it have no voice. Sometimes they might be put in golden urns; sometimes they might be taken from quiet tombs overgrown with grass and their rotting bones placed into splendid memorials surrounded by banners to shine as a symbol for others. Later might come others with their own history, with their own gods. They will burn the pantheons, kick away the urns, trample the venerated holiness, spit on the noble symbols. They will then resurrect others, their own. Now their dead will have monuments, for their remains will be built mausoleums, their names will be on banners for display to crowds. Those are our symbols, those are our gods, long live the new history ....
The dead ones could not be heard, their sleep is eternal. They are waiting to be fudged by future history.
What ironic fate. Here they lie next to each other under the shade of the same bent birch, those crushed by the German bombs and those cut down by Russian bullets. What a cemetery! The cemetery of Polish tragedy!
Sleep, brothers, history is busy now, history is being reshaped. There will come a time when you will be removed from these graves.
What epitaph can we now put on your wooden cross? You who were born in the war, you who gave your life to the war?

BELLUM VOBISCUM
(War be with you, as opposed to pax vobiscum - Peace be with you)

颁辞苍迟颈苍耻别诲鈥︹赌�
'This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by 大象传媒 Radio Merseyside鈥檚 People鈥檚 War team on behalf of the author and has been added to the site with his / her permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.'

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