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.

At that moment we had only one aim to keep us all alive and, if possible, to save some of our possessions.
One rumour was being persistently repeated: on the recaptured lands the Soviets were mobilising all men of military age and, after a short training, sending them to the Front. Our anxiety increased. I had never belonged to the group of men who liked the profession of 'being a knight', especially in such 'un-knightly' times. Fighting with arms, shooting people, using methods of violence had always filled me with disgust and loathing. It is a dirty business. Should one behave like a monster, even in the name of the highest and most noble ideals? I know, I certainly know, what reply I can expect - for ideals ... for freedom ... if someone is attacking you, you should defend yourself.
Yes, Yes and, once again, Yes! I know, so go and kill each other, slaughter each other, so go and rape each other's wives and sisters - in the name of the holy ideals. I would like to know if fighting in the name of ideals makes the uniformed masses, fighting their battles, any more noble and gentle? During the fighting there exists a special unwritten morality where young men of twenty or so, steeped with blood and alcohol, can form their character by indulging in killing, raping and looting, without fear of punishment. No... I hate war with its well-organised machinery, irrespective of who is killing whom. It is enough for me to know that humans are killing humans, that they try to annihilate each other in the most brutal and criminal ways. I also have the right to voice my 'holy ideals'. Up till now, fate has helped me to stay away from this sad duty. Would I now, by the end of the war, be forced to go against my most holy principles? During these five years I had seen enough of this criminal war. Should I be forced now to actively become a part of it? There was even something worse - I would be incorporated in the Lithuanian battalions with strange people, not even knowing their language. I would feel completely defeated. Marushka, afraid of all this, hesitantly suggested flight, whispering flight. I did not want to flee with the Germans. The thought nauseated me and, anyway, where to? And what would become of my children and parents? What should I do? What?
A few days passed. Wilno was recaptured. During the night we could see the glow on the far horizon and hear the explosions.
The Front was getting nearer. On the dusty highway, occasional groups of stragglers from the German Army began appearing. We were familiar with these signs; these were the symptoms of lost battles. Emaciated German soldiers in torn uniforms, unshaven, supporting themselves with sticks, dragged their way along. As 132 years before with Napoleon's army, so now with the remnants of the German Army, struggled along the road. History was repeating itself but, unfortunately, nothing had been learned. On these old roads dragged the remains of Hitler's decimated army. After years of bloody fighting they, who had wanted to own Moscow as well as the Egyptian pyramids, had only secured for themselves enough land for their graves. Today their way is marked by crosses.
This time I went on foot to Kaunas as the retreating soldiers were crowding the highway and cycling was not possible. In my hand I carried a milk can for my little Roman. Sometimes a private car or a motorbike passed the columns, covering all of us with clouds of dust.
In Kaunas I met a man who was able to make his way from the east. He had passed the Front in the Wilno forests and arrived unharmed in Kaunas. He was quite emphatic regarding the rumours about the mobilisation of the local people by the Soviets. This had been his main reason for fleeing from the east. He was a Pole and wanted to be in his own country. On my way back to Karmelowo I thought about him. With all these evacuees and the chaos behind the lines of German armies, perhaps there was a chance of reaching my homeland. There was my native land, there lived most of my relatives ... I was so immersed in my thoughts that for a few seconds it did not register that a truck had stopped beside me. The driver, a German officer with a map in his hand, was making signs for me to approach. The truck was carrying German soldiers. When I came near enough, he asked me "Nach Wilkomir? Nach Wilkomir?" I replied in German that he was on the right road and that he had another 75 km to go. When he was ready to move on I asked if he could give me a lift, standing on the steps of the truck. He agreed. It was getting dark and, on the horizon, one could see the glow of burning forests. The soldiers were sitting in silence, their heads resting on their rifles. They were nearing the Front perhaps that very night would see them in the fighting lines.
"How far is the Front?" I risked asking.
"In Wilkomir,鈥� replied the officer without a moment's hesitation.
"That close?" I blurted out.
"Yes, sure, and soon it will be even nearer," he added with an odd smile.
A few minutes later I jumped off the car as we had come to the lane leading to our house.
Till late in the night we discussed the project to go to Warsaw. Warsaw. Why Warsaw? Warsaw and the surrounding counties were occupied by the Germans, but not incorporated into the Third Reich like many other cities. Nor could the Russians take one from there and enlist in the Red Army. In Warsaw there were many relatives and friends - Marushka's and mine. I wanted to share the war years, still ahead, with my own countrymen. Marushka's eyes were full of tears. Her parents did not want to go but they wanted to keep Roman. My mother wanted to be in the forest on the other side of the river, keeping Jurek with her. Anyhow, it would have been impossible to take the children. I suggested she stay where she was, as only my life was at stake but, at this, she burst out crying. She took this dilemma very hard. The tragic dilemma for a mother, wife and obedient daughter at one and the same time. She wept silently. Occasionally we could hear some muted detonations - the clock was ticking away, marking the passing of the night. I was silent. It was dawn when Marushka threw her arms around my neck. Between the children and me, she had chosen me. The decision was taken. A hard and painful last decision. We would both go to Warsaw.
Next morning we finished our packing and checked our bikes.
Looking through the window, during lunch, I saw two riders coming up the hill towards our house. The very thin horses climbed the hill with great trouble. I went out to meet them, accompanied by the barking of the dogs. The two very tired riders came into the yard, stopping at the draw well. Looking at them I was unable to suppress a grin. In front of me were two classical caricatures. Don Quixote from la Manche with his Sancho Panza. This sight would have been humorous if not for the deep tragedy of the situation. A symbolic tragedy.
The riders were two soldiers in German uniforms and bareheaded. One was extremely tall with a pale, long face. Round his neck was slung a rifle his strapped feet were bare and dirty. The other was a young man with a round face. In his hand he was holding a birch rod and he was seated on a small Kirghis pony. While I was looking at them with astonishment 'Don Quixote' started talking in German.
"We are hungry. Do you have something to eat?" I nodded my head. They dismounted and the horses rushed towards the grass near the fence. I took them into the kitchen. "I,鈥� continued 'Don Quixote', "have a bad stomach and can't eat anything heavy. I would really like some sour milk."
"And you?" I asked 'Sancho Panza'. "I don't care as long as there is plenty of it,鈥� he replied, to my astonishment in Russian. "Aren't you a German?" I asked him.
No. The German, sitting down, hurriedly explained.
"He is a Russian from the Wlasov army. A young lad of seventeen. He escaped while his army was surrounded. I found him on the road beside the forest. He was sitting and crying. He did not know what to do with himself. I felt sorry for him. You see I also have a son like him at the front. I don't know what is happening to him. My God, what is the war doing to us?" He sighed heavily and called to the boy - "Sit down, Alex." After the boy sat down he continued "He is a Russian, but he is a good boy so I took him with me. What does he know about the world? He was only a child when the war started, just like Hans who might be dead already. It is more than half a year since I have heard from Hans." He sighed again and from his pocket brought out a worn photo of his son in uniform.
He continued: "Photos, only photos, that is all that remains. Near Hanover I had my own business. In 1943 everything was bombed out including my house. My wife died leaving me with my only child, my son Hans. Will I ever see him again? Half a year. My God, half a year of this war is very long. Oh, the damned war. What has the Fuehrer done with his cursed party?
鈥淗e promised to create a new Great Germany, to give everyone work. And we believed it. He spoke so convincingly, so beautifully. And what has he given us? Ruins and cemeteries. Instead of the Great Germany now we have not even a Fatherland." He put the photo back in his pocket, sighed, and continued eating.
I looked at the boy. He was eating ravenously. "How did you come to be in the German Army?" I asked him. "I joined voluntarily." "Voluntary?" "Sure, what should I have done? There was no other life. You see in our parts it was this way. You either had to join the German Army or go into the woods to the red partisans. You couldn't do anything else. If you didn't go to serve in the German Army joining the Wlasovs, the Germans would deport you for labour into Germany. In the forests with the partisans it was a very hard life. To the Wlasovs the Germans issued boots, uniforms and better food. The family was also better off. So I went and joined the German Army."
After they had finished eating they went to the barn to sleep. When, in the evening, I came to look for them I found them still sleeping. The German was lying on his stomach, his long, bare feet stretched out, the Russian curled into a ball with his hand under the arm of his protector. Don Quixote and his Sancho Panza - two knight-errands of our times. What tragedy was incarnated in those two ludicrous figures.
That is what people are to the war.
That is what war is to people鈥� and the two scraggy nags were feeding along the fence.

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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