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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.

In the village were only scared-looking women standing in small groups, glancing fearfully around. They told us that the shooting came from a nearby town, Stepan, situated on the Horyn. The shooting was between the retreating Polish soldiers and gangs of peasants who had obtained arms from somewhere and were now trying to disarm the soldiers. The women explained that the previous evening a large unit of K.O.P. (Corps of Frontier Guards) had retreated through there. They had found some of their mates killed by gangs, from Stepan and now decided to seek a bloody revenge. They had surrounded the neighbouring villages, killed all the men and burned the villages to the ground. Therefore, today men from other villages were hiding in the forest. We were afraid to continue by boat as it would take us directly into Stepan, the town in revolt. To start walking through this empty and wild part of Polesia seemed equally risky. We decided to aim for the nearest railway line which went through Sarny, Zuniniec, Baranowicze, Lida to Wilno. We needed a map but mine had gone to the bottom of the river. As there was a school in the village, we hoped to find a map there. I went with Marushka and the bard used this opportunity to ask for eggs. The primary school was quite large. Only one lady teacher remained as the headmaster and the other teacher had left. They had gone west, being afraid of the approaching, Bolsheviks. She did show us a large geographical map hanging on the wall. We found our position relating to the railway. The teacher gave us additional information six kilometres away was a village Komarowo and, from there, a straight road direct to the railway station Rajewicze. As the village was on the river, we decided to take our dug-out for the last time. It took us only half an hour to reach this small village which stood between the swampy woods and the river.
This small village consisted of a few old, decrepit huts. The straw roofs were covered with moss, grass and on some even small birches were sprouting. Broken fences made from unhewn poles were mostly broken down and clay pots hung from them. In front of the huts grew stunted cherry trees. Only a little light entered through the small windows which were mostly covered with dirty rags. Here lived the people of bog and marshy woods Polesie. People of short posture, poor and dirty, people who had to make their living in the forgotten district of Poland. We went from hut to hut looking for a buyer for our dug-out. One peasant gave us 30 eggs and a kilo of bread for it and also shelter for the night. This part of Poland so far had hardly any evacuees; therefore quite a number of men gathered around us, asking questions. They were sitting on benches and puffing pipes or smoking cigarettes hand-rolled in newspaper. It was already dark and the hut was lit by a smouldering resinous ship stuck into the wall - it was 'the lamp' of Polesie. Dirty children crawled on the earthen floor. They piddled on the floor and the sticky clay dirtied their little hands and naked behinds. The housewife, pushing a sooty cast iron pot nearer to the edge of the stove, drained the water onto the floor. The hut was hot and steamy.
We spoke about the Soviets. They were awaiting them with mixed feelings. The young ones were full of enthusiasm, the older ones with a friendly reserve and the richer farmers with distrust. Everyone dressed alike, in best shoes and darned shirts and all were smoking the same hand-grown tobacco. The kulak (rich peasant) and the poor peasant, both neighbours in the same village and often related, but with different emotions passing through their heads. Hidden thoughts, calculated, culled off from the propaganda of left and right agitators.
"We are not educated but we know the difference between the chaff and the grain although we are only peasant," said a really old man with a twinkle in his eyes. "The Bolsheviks would sooner take my three cows away than give me a fourth from a richer farmer."
"But bolshevism is the power of the labourer and the peasant. Now, here you are the last, but there you might be the first," I contradicted, searching for his true opinion about communism.
Some were smiling ironically, others listened full of attention.
"I'll tell you something," replied the old man. "Their politics are such that, if you go to a koechoz, that means you are not an owner any more, you are then a nationalised man. If you don't go they will take away your land and finish you off. There you have the power of the peasant."
"Ah, Simon, you have the soul of a kulak," said a youngish man. "You still haven't had enough of masters, you are just... the master's servant." He spoke with hatred and left the hut.
"He wants to become a Commissar," someone called out.
There was general laughter followed by animated talk. I sat in the corner and listened attentively. Simon would not give in. He maintained that he would not be persuaded by red or white slogans, that he had lived his eighty years and knew life and people. In Russia man does not live for himself singly, but for all. But do all live for the betterment of life for everyone? Such were the thoughts of the old man from Komorowo, trying to separate the chaff from the grain.
That night we slept on straw in the hut. I had never seen so many fleas in my life. I saw them jumping straight up at least 25 cm without any trouble. That means they can jump more than 250 times their own height as Marushka calculated immediately. They jumped in swarms, clutching on to our clothes, our laces and legs. We scratched and tossed and turned but could not sleep at all. At dawn we got up feeling seedy and longing for a smoke. We had nothing with which to buy the home-grown tobacco. The peasant advised us to gather some cherry leaves, dry them and smoke. This smoke was often used when tobacco gave out. We followed his advice, dried the leaves on the stove and rolled cigarettes in newspaper. The hot and bitter smoke started to choke us, bringing tears to our eyes. We no longer cared for a smoke (but, alas, not for long).
The 'straight' route to the railway was 10 km, leading through swamps and mire, following some barely visible tracks. Our host was very kind and offered to take us across. Breakfast consisted of milk and some eggs which we received for the boat, and we were ready to go.

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'This story was submitted to the People’s War site by ´óÏó´«Ã½ Radio Merseyside’s People’s 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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