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.

Next morning was a Sunday and I went to the priest straight after Mass. I kissed his hand and gave him the paper from the administrator. He put his glasses on and started reading, and then he yelled "What - I have to give away the presbytery land? This land is under type administration of the diocesan chancery. I do the ploughing, and the sowing and now somebody comes and wants to take the land away. I will not give it,鈥� he screamed. "Never. I don't care about your paper. The boss of this land is the diocesan chancery. Go there, good man. The land is not mine," he continued, without screaming. "I am only the caretaker of the Church property.鈥� He gave me the paper and went back to the house.
"Again I went back to the administrator," the fisherman continued, "and repeated what the priest had told me and the administrator said, 鈥淭hat is not our business any more. You have the paper stating that the Prince will give you even more than you possessed before. If the priest does not give it to you, go to the office and ask them to help you.鈥�
"It made my blood boil. I threw the paper to the ground and left. We built this hut on our land and I am not going to move from here!
He continued, his voice full of sadness and bitterness "Five of my sons are now fighting at the front and I don't even know if they are still alive. We were told to defend our home and Fatherland. And where is our native home? Whose home are my sons defending? The Prince's! This bloodsucker. There is no justice, sir, no justice on this earth. Where should I welcome my sons if they come home from the front? Here, in this hovel?"
This story of a simple fisherman touched us greatly. We were unable to give him advice. We only wished him a better future after the war and left, carrying the boat and oars along a narrow path. According to the Constitution, this path was the boundary line between the property of two equal citizens - the Prince and the fisherman.
Whilst lowering the boat into the water we had our first unpleasant surprise. A passing peasant informed us that after the first bend there was a railway bridge, under which the army would not permit anyone to pass. I went to find out. It was true. Less than a kilometre away was a railway bridge, surrounded by barbed-wire, which extended into the river. The bridge was patrolled. We hired a cart and carried the boat beyond the bridge.
We had overcome the first obstacle but lost many hours. We covered the bottom of the boat with plenty of straw and I, as the oarsman, took the place in the back with Marushka as ballast, sitting on our rucksack in the middle. I pushed away from the bank and the boat turned lazily towards the centre of the river. I hoped that there a rapid current would carry her quickly. We knew that our boat could not be fast but we felt let down by the River Horyn. It was such a lazy river that sometimes we were unable to tell the direction in which it was floating. The so-called blessed current pushed us no more than a kilometre per hour. Marushka, always fond of calculations, informed me that, depending only on the current, we would reach the river mouth in one and a half months. To get a little more speed, Marushka moved to the back with the rucksack; the bow lifted and I started to row strongly. Luckily for us, I had been rowing a kayak fairly frequently. Our boat started to move a lot faster. The river in this place was not wide not more than ten to fifteen metres from bank to bank. The great advantage was that the river was deep; the shallow banks gave way immediately to a much greater depth. Horyn gave the impression of being a channel rather than a river. Before we had time to be satisfied with the pleasure of boating, it began to get dark. As we were passing a bend where the river touches a road, we saw a man with his shirt off, rinsing his soapy face. He raised his hand and called to us, asking where we were going. He was very happy to hear that we were proceeding towards Wilno.
"I, too, am going to Wilno. I am from Wilno. Please take me with you. I will help rowing." I slowed down and looked at Marushka. This was a possibility we had not included in our plans.
"Do you have a lot of luggage?" I asked, hesitantly. "No, only this bag,鈥� pointing to a small bag lying in the grass. "You can see yourself that this boat is very small and an extra load may ground it."
"No, it will not go under" he said, very assured. "I am not heavy." He rinsed his face, dressed hurriedly, probably thinking that all had been settled. I had nothing against a try. On such a river one had to row constantly and an additional oarsman would be welcome. I could not count much on Marushka who was a much better pianist than an oarswoman.
We looked him over. He was fairly young, rather nondescript with a fat face, irregular features and dark hair combed back. I discovered later on that he was 27 years old.
"I am Adam Mickiewicz," shaking our hands vigorously he introduced himself. Adam Mickiewicz was the name of the greatest Polish poet. This name surprised us and I felt like calling out "Oh, bard come to our silent boat and we will float down together to Wilno, the town of your youthful dreams," because the famous poet spent his academic years in Wilno. Slowly and very carefully we sat down in the boat as we did not know how much she would hold. First came Marushka who, being the lightest, sat in the front, then our new companion and, lastly, myself. The boat sat rattier deep, barely a handbreadth above the water. Although more stable, she became much slower.
It became dark and we could hear some explosions away in the west. They began singly, then closer together and, after a while, a continuous thunder. We were in no doubt that we were hearing the Front as the sky in the west was clear, with nothing like a storm in sight. I changed places with our new companion. We had to pass each other in a very narrow place, holding onto the sides of the boat. Marushka watched carefully, trying to adjust the balance. The Bard, as we called him, being the guest climbed over me and, taking my place, started to row, full of energy and experience. I took my maps and tried to adjust them to our position. I wanted to know where the Front was. According to my reading, the thunder from the west was somewhere near Lick. Our Horyn was running quite a few kilometres away from it and then gave a sharp turn to the north-east. We decided to continue through the night, hoping to pass the Front before it came any nearer.
The evening dusk gave place to a dark night. On the western horizon flares from the exploding shells began to appear and then came the glow of fires. Our rowing became more vigorous and we changed places frequently. The sky from the east was covered with clouds, only a few stars being visible. On the bank the bulrushes and shrubs started to weave and bend and the wind was getting stronger. It became colder and heavy drops of rain were falling noisily into the river. A storm was about to start. The rain began to pelt down violently whilst thunder and lightning came from all sides. Front and storm seemed to have united. The rumble of the artillery was overshadowed by the roar of the storm. The lightning cut through the clouds - even the light from the explosions looked paler. The lightning was cutting the darkness, the fires were illuminating the horizons and the heavy rain was screening all. We were wet to the bone. We were navigating by feel and touch. Our boat stopped suddenly, pressed against some thing. We had probably taken a blind arm of the Horyn.
We felt lost between the shrubs and reeds, trying to find the main current. The rain pelted in our faces and there was water above our ankles in the dug-out canoe. We retraced our route but, again, no current. Where the hell was the river proper? Was it a bewitched swamp? At last the canoe was free of weeds. The clean, clear water suggested that we were in the proper stream. But the next question was; in which direction should we go? Horyn was so slow that at night it was impossible to see the direction of the current. The Bard was tearing pieces off some letters and throwing them in the river and I lighting matches which were constantly going out, tried to find the direction of the current. The waves moving backwards and forwards made the bits of paper hover in the same place. We were quite disorientated. When one of the lightning flashes illuminated the nearby bank, we saw some huts through the curtain of rain. We decided to stop and look for shelter in the village. We managed to reach the bank, lifted the dug-out and, taking our belongings and the oars, set out to the village. It was near midnight. Everyone was asleep and the houses securely locked. The near Front made everyone even more cautious and frightened of gangs. The occupants of the first few huts we tried refused us permission to enter. At last someone took pity on us. It was one of the huts on the outside of the village. The peasant, without coming out, pointed to the barn. Wet and tired, we fell onto the straw. We could not change into anything dry, as nothing was dry. When we got warm, hugging each other, steam began to evaporate from our wet clothing. Thus finished our first day on the river trail.
Next morning we got completely dry in the hut of the owner and continued our journey. The morning was misty and wet but cleared to a sunny day. We were warm and dry and our spirits started to rise. At last the river turned to the north, the roars and explosions quietened down and we floated quickly along the beautiful river.
On the way we met another boating enthusiast. Compared to our dug-out, his was a liner, it even had a funnel. From far away this funny contraption looked like a miniature Noah's Ark. We pulled as strongly as we could to catch up and have a good look. This was not difficult as the ark moved very slowly and majestically. It certainly was a unique navigational object. Two dugouts like ours were joined by a bridge made out of planks. At the back was a cabin with a window and a sheet-iron pipe from which, like a steamboat, clouds of steam poured. In the front the cabin was open. Near the opening stood an iron stove, then a stool and, deeper in, a plank bed made up and with pillows. On the first gangway sat a young woman, peeling potatoes 鈥� probably the wife of the ark owner. A few children played next to her. The captain of this Horyn yacht was a young suntanned fellow in a torn shirt. With his dishevelled hair and shapeless beard, he looked like a Robinson Crusoe. He was busy fixing baits to many fishing rods hanging around the deck. The long pole fixed to the back deck indicated the way of steering this odd raft. It was hard to overtake it as she took up all current space and our canoe could just squeeze through, touching the bank. We greeted each other with full marine courtesy. We started talking. He was also an evacuee going with all his family to relatives in Pinks, a city in north-east Poland. He went ahead and we stopped to have something to eat, finishing all our food supply. We were helped considerably by our bard who had only a piece of bread left. Our passenger was not talkative and a rather lazy companion. He was a Bachelor of Law and assured me that he knew me from Wilno University but I could not remember him, even with this exceptional name. He only came fully alive when eating and therefore all we learned about him was during meal times.

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'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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