大象传媒

The story you are about to read begins in 1939, when my father was a twelve/thirteen year old boy living in Maloryta, a small town in what was then South East Poland. His father was a political activist and a lawyer who had specialised in defending workers groups. What follows are my fathers own words, with only those changes made which were necessary when transcribing the spoken word into text.

Just before, or within a month or so of the war starting, father thought it prudent that some of us should spend time with friends or relatives away from the town, especially as the station and bridge were not too far away from our house. We travelled in darkness in a horse drawn cart on a country road full of bumps. All I could see were silhouettes of trees and eventually, buildings. Father got down and we could hear voices, which got louder as father and whoever he was with were coming back towards the cart. The conversation was in the dialect of Belorussian and Ukrainian, and the words filled me with fear and foreboding. 鈥楢nton鈥� the voice said, 鈥楻un; if the Ukrainian Nationalists catch you, they will cut your throat!鈥�. The journey back home was very quiet.

Maloryta was bombed shortly after the Germans began hostilities with Poland. Somebody said they were attacking the Station. Out house was right opposite, and I rushed home. The bombardment was still ongoing, so I ran into a nearby field full of sunflowers, and tried to shelter. My half brother Czeslaw, who we knew as Dobrek, was killed in this attack. He was a year younger than me. He had been out playing, in an avenue lined with trees opposite the station, when the bombing began and he was struck by a piece of shrapnel. He was hit in the temple. The entry and exit wounds were very small, but even a tiny piece of shrapnel in such a vulnerable place, had meant his death. I remember very little of the funeral. To my recollection father had to do everything. He made the coffin, and conducted a simple ceremony and the burial, himself. If he did have help, I do not remember it.

This bombardment also caused some terrifying destruction. The house next but one to ours took a direct hit and there was absolutely nothing left, nothing but a big crater. The trees around the house still stood, and you could see the down from the pillows and quilts in the destroyed house, scattered amongst the branches. The side of the house next to us, which had been nearest to the blast, was also badly damaged. This was my only direct experience of German action at this time.

Very soon the Soviets occupied Maloryta. From the time Czeslaw was killed, to the time we were 're-settled', I do not remember very much of the facts. Mostly I remember feelings. I can almost feel now what I had felt then. Waiting in anticipation of something going to happen, not knowing what, with a feeling of nausea in the pit of one鈥檚 stomach. Maybe because everyone around us felt it, there was no relief from advice and sympathy.

Soon the Red Army was in full control. There were rumours of pockets of resistance, which were confirmed in later years. Quite a number of Red Army men were around the Station, and it was noticeable that they were not as well equipped as Polish soldiers were. Their uniforms were shabby (except for the officers). From what I remember they were disciplined when on duty and when officers were around, but if not they always looked for food, vodka, Polish cigarettes and tobacco. One heard of Communist sympathisers pointing the finger at people, and many were arrested. The police were replaced by a militia, and the council authorities were all new. But I had to go to school. War or no war my parents believed in education. At school I remember being utterly confused. History was being re-written, we received lessons in Russian language and some, what I know now to be, indoctrination.

Father was arrested in Maloryta on the 17th March 1940. I know now that it was not uncommon for left wing intellectuals and activists to be arrested. Soon after our turn came, and on the 13th April 1940 the 鈥榬e-settlement鈥� to Kazakhstan started. My first recollection is entering our dining room and seeing our mother putting our prized possession, a fine Persian rug, onto the blanket which was spread on the floor. There were two Red Army soldiers flanking her, and they went everywhere she did, telling her in Russian repeatedly to get on with it. I can still remember their faces and their characteristic peaked caps. Mother also took our big eiderdown, while at the same time telling me what to do, how to pack, what to take. I was following her example by making a bundle in such a fashion that it could be tied, and carried on the back with the knot across the chest. A very well known art as practised by millions of refugees all over the world. Smaller items and food went into linen pillow cases. I was told to put on as many clothes as I could, and all this time the soldiers were 'encouraging' us to get on with it.

We were fortunate in one respect, in that we lived not far from the marshalling yard, where we were to assemble. As we approached the yard I could see cattle trucks. I knew the place very well, it being my former playground. Many a time I had seen cattle, timber or fish being loaded there. I did not see the significance of the cattle trucks then. As we arrived at the yard a milling crowd confronted us, ringed by Red Army men. The hubbub and confusion slowly turned into people continually asking questions. 鈥淲here are we going?, why have you arrested us?, what will become of us?, how are we going to live?鈥�, and so on. Many who knew my mother and her knowledge of the Russian language asked her to approach the Red Army personnel and ask them where we were going to be 鈥榬e-settled鈥� to. That was the first time I had came across the expression, 鈥榬e-settling鈥�. All this was happening at bewildering speed, with accompanying confusion and anxiety, and very many questions to which there were no answers.

I do not remember getting into the cattle truck, but I remember very well the position we occupied. Inside, there were platforms with two tiers on each side. Once we were inside, there was no room to spare. We were mostly women, old men and children of all ages, although I do not recollect small babies. Toilet facilities consisted of a hole in the floor of the wagon.

There were all kinds of people from peasants to professionals. Some were ill prepared for what was to come. Some were bringing treasures, possessions which had no bartering value, and that was their undoing later on. I remember one such person, dressed in a light summer frock and light coat, carrying a small suitcase. My mother knew her, and commented on it. I think my mother had learned a hard lesson earlier in her life when leaving Kiev for Poland. In retrospect, on the whole, people of the land were not only prepared better with clothing and food, but also for what was to come. They could withstand the hardship better.

We were still in Maloryta, in semidarkness, and I could hear the shouting of the guards or railwaymen, and the clinking of the buffers as the train moved away from the goods yard. I was never to see my birthplace again. Inside the truck some were crying, some praying aloud, some counselling others. Some, like my mother, were very quiet. I was completely bewildered and numb. The only source of light when the sliding doors shut, was from the small rectangular barred windows, and a narrow gap between the halves of the doors. When opened or closed only one side was used. The windows and gaps in the doors were also the only source of ventilation. Sometime during the journey I began feeling faint. My mother and I were on the top tier farthest from the window. It was agreed to take turns at the window to revive those who were gasping for breath. This was a problem during the day when it was hot. During the night it was cold. We were sleeping on boards, softened only by what we had with us.

What food we had was soon exhausted and we had to depend solely on what was provided by those who were supervising our 鈥榬e-settlement鈥�. What we were given was irregular, depending on distances between stations. When the train stopped, those who had anything to barter with, could get extra from the guards, who, as the journey progressed got very choosy. Some in the wagon had more food with them than others. Those of the land were usually better placed, and at the beginning of the journey there was a certain amount of sharing. Very soon though all realised it was each one for himself in order to survive. There were even attempts at thieving, notwithstanding the close proximity we were to each other.

I remember myself being continuously hungry, a feeling that did not leave me for the entire duration of my stay in the USSR. I started dreaming of food. Nothing exotic, mostly what I was getting at home. And later on in Martuk, where we lived for a while, when staying in an unheated draughty room, winter clothing and bedding was added to my dreams. As the journey progressed in total or semidarkness, it was spent in waiting, anxious and fearful of the unknown. People became more silent, and talked in subdued voices. I was dropping off, awakening when the train was manoeuvring in yards with the clinking of the buffers and guards shouting, and when it all subsided dropping off again.
Those at the window were relating information continuously, that is, if there was anything to relate such as the names of towns we did not stop at, changes in direction, or troop movements backwards and forwards. Changes of direction I remember most vividly, as sometimes my mother was asked about names of rivers, or towns, geography being her forte subject at school, especially the Russian empire. We were definitely zigzagging all over Russia, very often going in the opposite direction from the destination at which we eventually landed.

When the train stopped and the sliding doors were opened by the guards, the light and fresh air were intoxicating. We were told that a party was allowed to go for boiling water, for which we had to get all available receptacles. We learned very quickly to have as much water as possible, as we never knew when the next stop would be. We also got some bread, and slabs of a type of pastry made from a cereal similar to semolina. It was cut into squares, and after a while one learned to like it very much. I do not recollect getting very much else.

One one occasion I was one of the group going for boiling water. There were a number of other people who were inside the canteen area. Very often the tap was outside but in this case it was in the canteen. Usually nobody else was allowed to mix with the 鈥楶olish Bourgeoisie鈥�. Unexpectedly I felt something thrust into my hand, and heard a whispered instruction to hide it under my shirt. Trying to look inconspicuous is not in my nature, but I got safely back into the wagon and my mother and I were richer by half a loaf of bread and some meat. I can still remember with warmth the heavily lined and scarred face of the old woman. Even after over fifty years her kind deed has not dimmed in my memory.

The wagons must have been used before, as we soon discovered to out cost. They were also carrying those most unwelcome passengers, lice. Very early in the journey all in the wagon started experiencing great discomfort. My experience was that of torment. At home although there was the occasional 鈥榝ind鈥� resulting in great consternation and immediate remedial action to eradicate the parasite, we were not prepared for what was to follow. Severe infestation, which lasted most of the stay in the USSR. Every opportune moment was spent in trying to get rid of the offenders. The fact that it was a problem was proven by that fact that in every large town there was a de-lousing centre. A chamber that one could drape ones clothes over, and when closed it exposed the clothes to super steam. It was effective when it worked as designed, but when the steam was not hot enough the respite from lice was very short. Sometimes the steam was so hot that it shrivelled the clothes. When finally settled in our new home we had to devise our own methods. I shall spare the reader the details.

I have no recollection of us arriving in the town of Martuk, (in Aktyubinsk region, Kazakhstan) our final destination. But I do recall later looking at Martuk from the part of the station we must have arrived at, and seeing a building dominate the whole of the town. I later learned it was a very high grain silo / elevator. Otherwise the town and surrounding countryside were monotonously flat. The silo was part of the station complex, and trains could pass right under the grain discharging chute. We were taken with many others in a lorry which stopped at various places where those in charge shouted commands for so many to get off. We in turn were dropped off at our new 'house', and so our life in Kazakhstan started.

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