We were careful not to be seen with Sergeant Borowski at the ticket booth when he presented the papers allowing us to travel. As planned, he had forged our ages, declaring on our permits that my brother was 20 and I was 25, instead of our true ages of 7 and 11.
Pushing our way to the platform, we tried to get as close as possible to the rails so we would be in a good position to board the train when it pulled into the station. We didn’t dare lose our place, for fear of being left behind in the rush of hopeful passengers. The icy-cold weather penetrated our thin clothing, but all we could do to keep warm was stamp our feet and move our arms. Around us people were huddled together in clusters, surrounded by cardboard boxes and bundles wrapped in blankets and sheets. We all waited, staring down the empty tracks as hour after hour passed. Darkness was starting to fall when we finally heard the whistle of an engine.
The sight of the approaching train sparked the listless mass into a raging mob. The station turned into a surge of people shoving and clawing their way toward the opening train doors.
I saw Nina climbing into a window. My mother handed Antek to her. Ciocia Stefa and Zosia pushed me from behind at Sergeant Borowski, who was already on the steps. He stretched out his arms and pulled me onto the train. We forced our way into an overcrowded passage as people swore at us. Finally, I curled up into a corner on the floor and held tightly to my suitcase, fearing that if I let go, it would be stolen.
The wagon shook and started rolling with a squeak. At last we were on our way. I let out a sigh of relief as I listened to the rhythmic turning of the wheels and tried hard not to fall asleep, but failed.
Morning came. The first sight that met my eyes was two middle-aged Russian women wearing the traditional short gray quilted coats and flowery scarves tied under their chins. They were sitting opposite me, and, to my horror, I saw tiny, short white threads moving up and down their clothing: lice were crawling all over them. My mother saw this, too, and took a small bag from her purse. She started sprinkling a white powder over us, which also spread over the floor.
The door from the adjoining railway car opened and a conductress appeared, yelling at the top of her voice: “Tickets! Tickets!” She wore a navy uniform over her stout figure and carried a leather bag over her shoulder. Her graying hair was tied at the back of her head; her tired-looking blue eyes scrutinized every passenger. Sergeant Borowski handed her our tickets, which she clipped without comment. She didn’t seem to care how the tickets had been obtained, as long as everybody was accounted for.
As she passed by us, however, she noticed the white powder. “What’s this?” she demanded.
My mother replied: “This is to prevent getting lice.”
The conductress shook her head and pointed to her forehead. “Polaki, duraki,” she said, indicating she thought Poles were idiots.
My mother followed her and whispered something. I saw the conductress nodding her head. I also noticed her slipping something into her leather bag. Later I realized that my mother’s gold watch was gone. Why was my mother bribing this woman? I wondered.
This photo of my mother was taken in 1942. I think it shows both her determination and her sense of humor.
When we came to the next big station and people started leaving the train, I understood. The conductress motioned us toward a vacated compartment before anybody else could occupy it. The compartment consisted of two wooden benches facing each other, with wide shelves for storing luggage above them.
The train started moving, slowly at first, and then soaring down the metal-and-wood-ribbed rails, across the barren countryside of Kazakhstan. We passed some small railway stations where crowds were waiting, but the train made only brief stops at them, taking off without any signal or warning. Eventually I dozed off to the sound of the wagon spinning and clicking.
On the morning of our third day of traveling, the cessation of movement interrupted my sleep. The train had come to a stop. A voice outside announced loudly, “Alma Ata, Alma Ata.”
Everybody was curious to see the view outside. An awe-inspiring sight met our eyes. The rays of the rising sun, which was still hidden from us in the valley, lit the snowy peaks of high mountains. The belt of light widened to the lower regions, but the city itself was still filled with darkness. Only the station had lamps, illuminating the waiting crowds.
Then Zosia shouted, “Look out! The NKVD is getting on the train.”
“Calm down, calm down,” said Sergeant Borowski. “Hide the children. I’ll deal with the police.”
Zosia grabbed Antek and lifted him onto the luggage rack above our seats. She covered him with a blanket and threw some bags on top of him. My mother pushed me under one of the wooden benches and blocked the opening with a small suitcase. The space had probably never been cleaned; the dirt and dust were choking me, but I didn’t dare utter a sound. It seemed like an eternal wait until I heard a deep, loud voice in the corridor: “Papers, identification, permits.” I heard the door open and could only guess that Sergeant Borowski was handing over the forms as he explained, “We are all going to join the Polish army in Yangi Yul.”
The voice said, “Where are the two other people listed here on the papers?” My heart stood still, and my body tensed.
“Please help us, God,” I prayed silently.
“They stepped out to buy some food and water at the station,” Sergeant Borowski lied. “They will be back shortly.”
What is going to happen now? I thought.
“Khorosho. Fine,” the voice answered.
The door closed. I sighed with relief. Was it over?
“The children must stay hidden until the police leave the train,” Sergeant Borowski said harshly.
But the NKVD didn’t leave. The train started up again and gained speed while I lay on the cold steel floor. I felt every movement of the squeaking and shaking wheels. I didn’t dare to come out. After about an hour the train slowed down and came to a stop.
“Frunze, Frunze,” the name of the station was announced.
When the train stopped in Alma Ata, the capital city of Kazakhstan, my brother and I had to hide from the NKVD police. © IlyaPostnikov/Dreamstime.com
“The NKVD is getting off the train!” my mother cried.
I climbed out from under the bench. Antek was already sitting on it, and my mother was passing out the small pieces of dry dark bread that she had prepared for the journey. The air was stuffy because the windows were jammed shut. The wagons were very old and badly maintained.
Toward evening we saw the flickering lights of a city. As the train stopped, the announcement came from the platform: “Tashkent, Tashkent.”
“This is the capital of Uzbekistan,” explained Sergeant Borowski. “Very soon we’ll reach Yangi Yul. It’s a small station, and the train may not stop there long. We will have to move quickly.”
About an hour later we reached Yangi Yul. As we disembarked from the train, the first thing we saw was a Polish soldier wearing a green beret emblazoned with an eagle. He was marching up and down the platform, carrying a rifle. Ciocia Stefa ran to him. “Do you know of Doctor Balicki, my husband, attached to General Anders’s military court?”
“Yes, I met him. He left three days ago for Persia with a transport of soldiers.”
When we heard these words, we were in shock, not believing our ears. Completely crestfallen, we sat down on our suitcases. What would our fate be now?
Sergeant Borowski shook his head and said, “I’m so sorry. I cannot do anything more for you.”
Suddenly a jeep stopped near us. A young blonde woman in a short green skirt and military jacket jumped out. She looked at us, and then Zosia called out, “Do you remember me? We went to high school together!”
They embraced warmly, and Zosia asked, “Have you seen our father? The soldier told us that he left for Persia.”
“That’s not true! I saw him this morning,” the blonde woman answered. “I don’t have permission to take passengers in a military vehicle, so I can�
�t take you to him in this car. But I’ll let him know you are here. I am part of the PAWC—the Polish Auxiliary Women’s Corps—and I hope that you’ll be joining us.”
Soon after she left we saw a man of medium height, wearing a military uniform, approaching us. It was my uncle! I recognized his walk, but he was much thinner than I remembered. Two years of prison life had taken their toll on him. Ciocia Stefa started walking toward him. We all stood still, watching silently along with the other people around us. My aunt and uncle fell into each other’s arms, crying.
Then Wujcio Władzio embraced everybody else, except for me. “Where is Krysia?” he asked.
“I’m right here, Wujcio.”
“I didn’t recognize you! You’ve grown so much!” Before him stood a thin girl wearing brown mismatched boots that my mother had managed to get for me. Antek stood beside me in green-laced shoes. The sleeves of my shabby coat were too short, and Antek’s jacket barely fit him, either. We must have looked very different from the well-fed, well-dressed children he remembered.
“I’ve rented two rooms with a Russian family, and I have a car waiting that General Anders kindly let me use tonight. My orders were to leave for Persia, but I knew you were coming and managed to get off the list.”
We packed into the jeep, and the military driver took us through the dark streets. Though we were still on Soviet soil, I felt indescribably relieved to know the Polish army was so near.
15
Tragedy Strikes Home
“We’re joining the Polish army,” announced Zosia. She, Nina, and Ciocia Stefa left for work at the army headquarters. My mother, Antek, and I remained in the Russian family’s house where Wujcio Władzio had rented rooms for us.
The house was on a narrow street with high mud walls marked only by wooden doors that led to houses with interior courtyards. Built from sand-colored clay, it was U-shaped, so all the doors and windows overlooked the courtyard. We lived in two adjoining rooms with a small entrance hall in which a stove for burning wood or coal to heat the area stood against one wall. There were two beds in the smaller room and three in the larger, which also held two benches and a small table. All of the furnishings were made from wooden planks with a rough finish. By now we were quite accustomed to primitive life and happy to have a roof over our heads.
One day the Russian family from whom we rented the rooms must have been at work, because only an old woman and a small boy about Antek’s age were in the courtyard. The woman was washing clothing in a tin bucket, and the boy was jumping around.
Antek could speak Russian very well by now; he had learned the language quickly from the Russian children in Kazakhstan. He went to the boy and asked him his name. “Yuri,” the boy replied, with a smile. They started chasing each other around the courtyard. I was glad Antek had company.
In the evening Ciocia Stefa, Wujcio Władzio, Zosia, and Nina came home, all wearing dark-green military uniforms. They brought rations given to them—dried meat and some bread—which they were going to share with us.
“When do you think we will be able to get out of Russia?” my mother asked.
“I don’t know,” replied Wujcio Władzio. “Nobody knows anything, not even General Anders. The Russians are very slow in issuing permits and organizing transportation. I heard a rumor that we might go to China instead of Persia. All we can do is wait. A Polish school was started not far from here, and Krysia should attend.”
The next day my mother, Antek, and I walked across the vineyards toward a small, rectangular red-brick building with a veranda in front, nestled under a cluster of trees. A young, slender woman was sitting on a chair, reading a story in Polish to a crowd of children resting on the grass in front of her. She got up and greeted us.
“Dzień dobry. Good morning. I am Maria Dombrowska. I was a teacher in Poland, and now I am the only one teaching the Polish children here. We don’t have books, paper, or pencils for every child, but I teach from the few books that I was able to obtain. We play games and sing. Sister Teresa teaches religion three times a week.”
“This is my daughter, Krystyna,” my mother said. “May I please leave her with you?”
“Yes, of course.”
My mother left, and I found a space to sit on the grass. It turned out that the building was reserved for the military administration, and, as far as I could understand, we weren’t allowed to go inside. I looked around. Most of the children were younger than me, except for two older girls whom the teacher called Alina and Ewa.
I found the class boring. All the stories and songs were aimed at the younger children. After a very simple lesson Pani Maria announced, “Class dismissed.”
I walked home across fields full of early spring flowers blooming purple and yellow. I longed for the day when I would be able to go to a regular school and resume my studies. A few Uzbek women in their native garb of pantaloons and multicolored blouses passed me without greetings or smiles. I was used to seeing them every day, carrying babies on their backs or, on their heads, piles of branches neatly tied together with string. Under the shade of a tree, the Uzbek men sat talking and laughing. Some looked old, but most of them were young. I guessed that they were laborers working in the vineyards, resting after picking grapes all day.
My uncle was a judge attached to the military court, and one day he had to travel to Samarkand, a large city in Uzbekistan. He came back with a strange tale.
“Now I understand why the Uzbeks are so well disposed toward Poles,” he related. “In the 12th century, in the southern city of Kraków, a trumpet fanfare was played every hour from the top of the spire of Saint Mary’s church. When the city was invaded by the Tatars of the Golden Horde, the sentry trumpeted the warning—‘Hejnal’—but was abruptly interrupted by an arrow shot through his throat by one of Genghis Khan’s cavalrymen. Over the centuries the story has been told here in the steppes, along with a prophecy that until a Polish trumpeter plays ‘Hejnal’ on Uzbek soil, Uzbekistan will not be free of Russian domination. The Uzbeks are very superstitious, so they asked the Polish authorities to have somebody play it from the top of one of the mosques—against protests from the Russian authorities, of course. One day,” he concluded, “when we go back to Poland, we will tell everybody about this.”
One of the most important holidays in Poland is May 3, Dzień Konstytucji, which commemorates the day the Polish Constitution was written in 1791. The Polish army decided to celebrate this holiday with a show, and Nina was one of the singers. The stage was set outside on a raised wooden platform. First Nina and two other girls in uniform performed a chorus. They were followed by two men who told jokes that everybody laughed at, except me, since I didn’t understand the adult humor. Then Nina took the stage alone. She sang “Ostatni mazur” (“The Last Mazur”)—the song about a young man asking his girlfriend for one last mazurka dance before he goes off to war, the same song my parents danced to the night they met. She sang like a lark. The sun shone brightly on her light-brown hair, and her voice rang out across the audience. Everyone clapped their hands in delight.
In this photo taken in 1940, just before we were deported from Poland, my then 15-year-old cousin Nina has a sad look in her eyes, as though she knows what the future holds.
Three months passed, and we were still waiting for a transport to take us out of Russia. One day in late May 1942 my mother and I were trying to walk the streets of Yangi Yul toward a market that had little to sell but where we could sometimes barter for bread or grapes. This time we could not get through to the market. Evacuees and refugees from other parts of Russia crowded the city, escaping the German army that was advancing toward Moscow. There weren’t enough accommodations for all of them, so many were living on the streets. The heat was so intense and the sun so scorching that most people tied sheets or blankets from one side of a building to another to try to create a little shade. The stench of human waste was sickening. Piles of garbage were everywhere, covered by swarms of buzzing flies.
June a
lso went by without a word from the authorities about our leaving Russia. Meanwhile, the lack of adequate sanitation contaminated the water supplies, causing an epidemic of dysentery, typhoid, and typhus to break out. It was only a matter of time before one of these diseases reached our family: Ciocia Stefa and Nina both came down with typhus. For two long weeks they lay ill at home while my mother did her best to nurse them. I helped by keeping the flies away from Nina’s face. She was so sick that most of the time she didn’t even recognize me. Ciocia Stefa was just as sick, but she was more coherent.
My mother wanted me to go to school every day so that I wouldn’t be exposed to the disease any more than necessary. One day I came home from school to find both Ciocia Stefa and Nina gone.
“Where are they?” I asked.
“They were taken to the hospital,” my mother sadly replied.
For the next two weeks I continued going to school every day. Sister Teresa was preparing us to receive the sacrament of confirmation. She had been a nun in Poland, but one day she had been arrested on the street and deported to Russia. Two years of prison had left a mark on her. She was short, with a sallow complexion and dark-brown eyes. Nobody could guess her age. She could have been in her early forties or much younger. She couldn’t get a veil to cover her head in Russia, so she hid her hair under a short blue scarf tied at the back of her head, with one end hanging out.
At home we did nothing but worry about Ciocia Stefa and Nina. We weren’t allowed to visit, because they were in isolation, but every day my mother or Zosia would go to the hospital to get an update on their medical conditions. Every effort was being made to save Nina because she was young, but Ciocia Stefa did not get much treatment, because the nurses said she was “starukha, an old woman.” She was 44 years old.
The confirmation date was set for July 14. That morning Wujcio Władzio went to the hospital and then quickly returned, crying. “Nina’s condition is critical. I am going back to the hospital. Zosia is already waiting there.”
Krysia Page 9