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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.

13th May, 1941.
Dear Friend,
I am a commander of the Red Army House, a recreation club in Kaunas. Knowing my options, you will not suspect me of opportunism. But I do know that you will hold the fact that I accepted this position against my wishes, you being a man of tradition to put it very mildly. I don't intend to argue with you about basic principles, as it would be futile. We have had different outlooks but the strong bond of friendship has kept us together since childhood.
I would like you to know what has happened to me and what eventually led me to this position.
I realised just now that a year has passed since we saw each other and I really don't know where to start. So many impressions, so many changes have occurred during this year.
Although living in the same province of Poland, in this short time you and I have become citizens of different countries. I, a citizen of the Lithuanian Socialistic Soviet Republic and you, White Russian Socialistic Soviet Republic. Before, we were separated by an insignificant country boundary, now by a closed frontier.
Yes, my friend, since Marushka and I returned to Wilno I have the impression of witnessing history in the making. During this year our Wilno has changed hands from Polish to Russian, from Russian to Lithuanian and from Lithuanian back to Russian. Wilno, like a courtesan, changed hands, was remodelled according to her temporary possessors. She even changed her name, as is customary for lovers. Today she is called, more softly, Vilnius.
Our Wilno became whimsical and unfaithful. In her old age she even has delusions of grandeur, wanting decidedly to be a capital city. Therefore we, her permanent residents, have had to change our citizenship twice - from Polish to Lithuanian and from Lithuanian to Soviet.
Today I am a citizen of Soviet Lithuania and am living in Kaunas. I left Wilno at the time when she was Lithuanian with President Smetona (the first and last President of Independent Lithuania). President Smetona, with the help of his 'kalakutas' (the nickname given to his policemen) and their rubber truncheons tried to remake Wilno, the ancient town of King Gedymin, into the capital city of Lithuania. At this time Wilno started to become deserted as many of the local residents and a majority of the evacuees went to Kaunas where, trying to get visas, they joined the long queues in front of different consulates and legations. From here was the last chance to go to the west, flying through Sweden. Some went to the east, others wanted to go to France and England (at this time the place of the Polish exile government).
My road was short. Thirteen kilometres from Kaunas, on the Wilkomir highway, a house with white shutters stood on a hill. There Marushka and I lived as this was her property. Life was idyllic. I was cutting wood in the snow-covered forests and she was knitting, nursing the new life in her.
With the spring came the storks, as well as Soviet bases. Afterwards the Red Army took over this country with its chapels and crosses along the waysides. The cream of the Lithuanian society and the government elite, including President Smetona, left the country. The tall policemen with their red spiked helmets disappeared from the streets. New people, of the Red Order arrived. The Red Army soldiers filled the streets and red banners were fluttering above the buildings. The Avenue of Independence was now called Stalin’s Boulevard.
After the elections, the Lithuanian House of Representatives announced, with strong ovations, that Lithuania would join the Soviet Union as the 16th Soviet Republic. I was an observer at this historical session of the Lithuanian Parliament.
One of the first citizens to join the new republic was our new-born son. We registered him in Z.A.K.S. (Civil Registry for Birth Certificates), giving him the name of Jerzy (George).
Shortly afterwards my father died. When my son arrived into the world, my father departed. With dramatic punctuality, the old generation gave place to the new one.
I had to hammer the nails into the coffin where my father was lying. You can't imagine, my friend, what a shattering experience it was. When hitting the pine board with the hammer I heard a dull, hollow echo coning from inside. I had the feeling that I was doing my father a great injustice. He, who was lying defenceless in this coffin, I was forever depriving of the possibility of returning to his family. Those were hard moments.
After the funeral I returned to our house with the white shutters but somehow I lost heart and interest. In this land great changes were occurring, changes for which I had been campaigning in academic circles before the war. You remember our club for the intellectuals, our paper "Razem" (Together) "Druk" (Print)? You remember our 'Gugi', 'Muty', 'Wladek', 'Henruk' and 'Robespierre' and many other enthusiasts, building in our minds huge projects, dreaming about great changes whilst sitting in small smoke-filled rooms. And especially do you remember after I had been arrested as a suspect communist and brought in the night to the chambers of the examining magistrate, how I was brought in handcuffs for investigation? I'll never forget the moment when the door opened and we were facing each other. We were both in training for the Bar - you to become a judge, I a barrister. You recording, sitting behind the official desk and I, the accused, in handcuffs.
Now look at us today when our dreams of long ago are beginning to come true, when new people are trying to build the foundations for collective living - I, like a 'kulak', have to look after the interests of my in-laws' farm, to fight against the landless ones.
Do you understand the irony of my fate? I'll admit to you that I gladly agreed to the order of the shire office of parcelling out 20-odd hectares belonging to my wife. I left the running of the farm, Karmelowo, to my relatives who came from Wilno to Kaunas looking for work.
Fate intervened again, making a joke. I became the commandant of the Red Army House. The location of my first work for the labour socialist peasant government was amongst highly polished floors of stylish salons in a beautiful building designed for the previous Lithuanian Officers Club. In this building the House of the Red Army was now located.
I was walking on highly polished floors of the concert halls, on Persian carpets in visitors salons, climbing marble steps covered with red carpets. Everything was illuminated by crystal chandeliers, with gilded pictures in the conference rooms and tropical palms and sunny hothouses as well. I felt as if in a dream. Was illusion a reality or was reality an illusion?
Such a short while ago I had been carrying manure out of the barn, trudging behind the plough. The contrast was too great to accept readily. After a while I became accustomed to it, to the house of culture and recreation for the Red Army. It consisted of a library, reading room, auditorium, picture theatre, restaurants, buffet, hotel, war museum, gymnasium and many lecture rooms such as for physical training, sewing, foreign languages, ballroom dancing, music, ballet, choir.
Mine was the job of administration, general supervision of the civilian personnel and technicians, as well as buying objects d'art and period furniture. Anything to enrich and beautify the interior of the House. I like the last two duties - they give me a lot of satisfaction as well. Yesterday, for instance, I met a very good painter of watercolours. His main subject is the sea resort, Polonga. I intend to give him a commission for a few pictures. I see them already hanging in the reading room which is covered with dark blue tapestry. I will not bother you with details and had better finish this letter. I have given you only a very rough outline, but I am unable to put in writing many of the topics I would like so much to discuss with you. We will speak about those things sometime later when the war is finished, IF our lives are spared.
Give my love to your wife, Wisia,

Your Zygmunt

My friend from early childhood was Edmund Oskierka. He never received my letter. He was deported to east Russia but never arrived at the labour camp. He was a paraplegic and died on the way from exhaustion.

May he rest in peace.

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