“I’m coming with you!” my mother sobbed.
“Mama, what about me! I have to go for confirmation.”
“You go alone, and Antek will stay here with the Russian family. Children aren’t allowed in the hospital.”
So I walked sadly across the fields, in the blistering July heat, toward the Polish army barracks. A crowd of soldiers and civilians gathered for the ceremony on a grass-covered area used for military training. I found my group with Sister Teresa.
“Do you have a sponsor?” she asked me.
“No, I’m alone.” I didn’t give her any explanation.
“I will be your sponsor. What name are you going to take?”
I thought for a moment. “I will be Teresa.”
Sister Teresa smiled and nodded in agreement. Little did she know that I didn’t care about my confirmation name, or anything else. I could only think about my family waiting in anguish at the hospital.
Everyone who was going to be confirmed stood in a row. General Anders marched in and positioned himself in the line with us. I wondered why he was here. Then I heard somebody behind me whisper, “He is also going to be confirmed because he converted to Catholicism.” Then I remembered Wujcio Władzio mentioning that the general had recently been baptized.
A bishop I had never seen before appeared. He wore military attire because church attire was not available in Russia. He was tall and thin, with graying hair. He looked just like everybody else who had suffered two years of malnutrition in prison. The only reason I even knew he was a bishop was that I knew priests could not perform confirmation. A priest carrying a tin bowl filled with oil accompanied him.
The ceremony began.
The bishop intoned, “Do you believe in the Father, God Almighty?”
“I do,” the crowd answered.
“Do you renounce Satan and all his evil works?”
“I do.”
“Do you, do you, do you?”
“I do, I do, I do,” I answered automatically, without comprehending anything being said. All I wanted was for the ceremony to be over so I could go home to find out about Nina.
The bishop walked to each person in turn. When he came to me, Sister Teresa put her hand on my right shoulder.
“Who is sponsoring you, my child?”
“I am,” answered Sister Teresa.
“And what name are you taking?”
“Teresa,” I replied.
The bishop dipped his two fingers into the bowl of oil and made the sign of the cross on my forehead. “I confirm you in your faith in Nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” He extended his hand toward me. I knew I was supposed to kiss the holy relics embedded in the stone on his ring.
The ceremony ended, and the crowd dispersed. I walked home as fast as I could. When I came through the door I was met by a deadly silence. Where was everybody?
“Is anybody home?” I cried out.
My mother came out of the other room, very pale, and embraced me tightly. I knew without her telling me what had happened. Nina was gone. I would never see her again. A terrible feeling of loss shook my entire body. I began screaming. My mother held me until I calmed down, and then I sobbed quietly on her shoulder.
The next day I overheard Wujcio Władzio tell my mother, “The funeral is tomorrow morning. I think Krysia should not attend. It’s going to be too hard on the child. Let her go to school.” I was very upset, but I knew I couldn’t go against my uncle’s wishes.
The next day, during the short school break, sitting on the grass I heard Alina say to Ewa, “Today is the funeral of one of the PAWC.”
I started crying. “It’s my cousin. She died.”
“My sister also died,” said Alina sadly.
“My aunt, too,” whispered Ewa.
Pani Maria overheard us and said, “Every day somebody dies. Let’s resume class.”
Was her remark supposed to make me feel better? I thought bitterly. Was that all the sympathy I was going to get? Nina was not just anybody. She was young, kind, and beautiful. She wasn’t even 18 years old. I couldn’t believe I would never hear her sing again. I already missed her terribly.
After class I headed home with a heavy heart. I found the house full of gloom. Everybody was back from the funeral. Wujcio Władzio had locked himself in one of the bedrooms. Zosia was somewhere in the garden, alone. My mother was sitting on the bed with Antek, who looked terribly sad. I knew that he understood far more than we realized, but he never expressed his feelings. He had been Nina’s favorite; she had loved him so much. I knew he was missing her, too.
Nina was buried in this grave in Yangi Yul, Uzbekistan, in July 1942.
“Why didn’t you take me to the funeral?” I demanded.
“It was too painful,” said my mother. “I didn’t want you to go through that pain. I want you to remember Nina the way she was before she became ill. She had a military funeral; taps were played, and shots were fired.”
“Mamusiu, do you remember the dream you had before we left Semipalatynsk?” I asked her. “The one where Nina walked onto a black stage dressed in a dark dress and a large white hand behind her waved while a voice said, ‘Zaczekać, zaczekać’?”
“Unfortunately, my dreams always come true,” my mother answered. “But it was God’s will. Now Nina is singing with the angels. Let’s hope now that Ciocia Stefa gets better.”
The three of us embraced and sat crying quietly together.
Two more weeks passed, and we were still in Uzbekistan, still waiting to get out.
16
Setting Sail for Freedom at Last
The tragedy of Nina’s death and the threat of not getting out of Russia made life at home unbearable. We barely spoke to one another. Wujcio Władzio and Zosia left the house every morning for work at the army headquarters, and I went to school. Sometimes I didn’t go, and my mother didn’t force me. I couldn’t stop thinking about Nina and how much I missed her. When Zosia returned in the evenings, she would kneel down and pray. Her hazel eyes had lost their laughing sparkle. She no longer smiled, and she stopped telling us stories from her childhood in Poland. She had been just one and a half years older than Nina; the two of them had been like twins. They understood each other, they enjoyed doing things together, and I had never heard them quarrel.
The day finally came when Wujcio Władzio came home and announced, “The first transport will be leaving soon for Krasnovodsk on the way to Persia, across the Caspian Sea. The Russian authorities are allowing only three departures from Yangi Yul.” Ciocia Stefa was still in the hospital and too weak to travel, so we would be the last to leave, he explained.
“No, no,” my mother cried. “Please, Władzio, use your influence to get permission for me and the children to go first. You, Stefa, and Zosia are in the army and you will be allowed to leave, but the children and I might not be so lucky. If one of us gets ill with one of the diseases going around, we might miss the date of departure and we’ll have to stay in Russia forever.”
“You’re right,” Wujcio Władzio agreed. “I’ll do my best to get you on that first list.”
A week later he came home with good news. “Get ready. You and the children can leave in three days. The only problem is that the Russians cannot provide passenger coaches, so you will have to travel in cattle wagons.”
“We arrived in Russia in cattle wagons, and we’ll leave the same way!” my mother shouted with joy. “As long as we get out of this God-forsaken country!”
We didn’t have much to pack. Everything fit into our two suitcases, plus each of the three of us wore a backpack. My mother dried some dark bread for the journey, knowing that we would not be able to obtain any other food on the trip.
Wujcio Władzio got permission to transport us to the station in a military jeep. When we got there, a long chain of cattle wagons was waiting. Russian and Polish military personnel stood by, holding the lists of people who were
allowed to leave. We went over to one of the Polish soldiers, who directed us to a wagon. Another soldier helped each of us climb up into the wide opening.
Wujcio Władzio and Zosia, who had also accompanied us to the station, looked at us with concern.
“Don’t worry!” my mother called to them. “We’ll see you soon in Persia.” I couldn’t believe that soon we would no longer be under the control of the Russians.
More and more people kept arriving. After almost an hour the whistle blew and the train started moving slowly. Before a soldier shut the big door of our wagon, we waved good-bye to Wujcio Władzio and Zosia. The shaking and rattling grew steadily stronger as the train picked up speed, heading in the direction of freedom.
There were no benches inside the wagon; we sat on our suitcases. There was a wooden bunk along one wall, and some people were already climbing onto it to get a view through the two small, high windows. The stench of cow manure filled the air. The people inside were mostly women and children of various ages, plus two old men who were so weak they couldn’t stand up without help.
I spotted a brown-haired girl in one corner. She looked at me with dark-blue eyes framed by long black lashes, and we recognized each other: it was Ewa from my Polish school in Yangi Yul. We had never become friends, because she was two years older than me—almost 14—but now I was glad to have her company. We smiled at each other, and after a while she made her way toward me, pushing through people and bundles of luggage.
“I didn’t know that you would be traveling today,” she said. “Mamusia said that it would take us about two days to reach Krasnovodsk. There are no toilet facilities, so I hope we’ll be allowed to stop at some stations.”
After a few hours the train did stop, and a Polish soldier opened the door. “Proszę wychodzić. Please come out.”
I looked out. The evening was very dark, and there was no sign of any station. I jumped down, and then I realized that people were relieving themselves next to their wagons. So that was the reason the train had stopped in the middle of nowhere.
That first night we slept on our suitcases. I awoke to the morning light drifting through the small windows and looked up at the people sitting high on the bunk. A young woman with short blonde hair and smiling eyes must have guessed from my expression that I wanted to see the countryside.
“Would you like to see where we are now?” she asked me.
“Yes, please.”
Stretching out her hand, she pulled me up onto the wooden bunk. I looked out at an immense desert of pale-yellow waves. The sands rolled toward the horizon, melting into the grayish-blue skyline. The rays of the rising sun shone brightly over the vast wilderness. A caravan of camels in the far distance was the only sign of life.
“We crossed into Turkmenistan and are now traveling across the Kyzylkum Desert, north of Persia and west of Afghanistan,” explained the young woman. “I’m so glad that I still remember my geography lessons from Poland,” she laughed.
I thanked her for letting me see the view, and slid down the bunk so that others could climb up and have their turns at the window.
Around noon we stopped again. The door opened, and two Polish soldiers and one Russian soldier entered with buckets of water. We had long ago learned to travel with tin mugs, and now we filled them with the water. My mother gave Antek and me pieces of the dried bread she had packed, and we dipped them into the water to soften them. We were allowed to leave the wagon to stretch our legs. Again we had to use the railway lines as toilets, which was very embarrassing, especially in daylight, but once again we had stopped in the middle of nowhere. I remembered that the bathrooms in Russian railway stations were filthy and overcrowded, so I understood why our train wasn’t stopping at any of them.
On the third day, late in the evening, we arrived at our destination. I heard the doors opening and voices outside shouting, “Krasnovodsk, Krasnovodsk!”
Grabbing our luggage, we jumped down onto sandy soil. I didn’t see any station. Where are we? I wondered. I felt a slight breeze on my face and heard the sound of splashing water. I guessed we must be near the Caspian Sea. Polish and Russian soldiers were carrying oil lamps that provided a dim light. They motioned the crowd of waiting people to move forward. We followed them and then were stopped.
“Wait here. All papers have to be checked,” one of the soldiers ordered.
I sank onto the sand and fell asleep with my head on my backpack. Soon I felt my mother shaking my arm. “Get up. We have to go.”
I roused myself and, taking Antek’s hand, followed her. Walking in the sand was so tiring that I took off my brown sandals. Why couldn’t this wait until morning? It seemed like everything in Russia had to be done at night. Then I remembered that every step brought us closer to freedom.
Finally, we reached a small hut of corrugated iron, with a passage in the middle where the NKVD and Polish soldiers were waiting. Every permit was thoroughly scrutinized by both parties. After we passed through the opening to the other side, we walked for some distance in total darkness until the Polish soldier leading us shouted, “Stanąć!” We obeyed, stopping, and waited there for the rest of the night.
With the first rays of daylight, rusty gray buildings became visible in the near distance. We were at the port of Krasnovodsk. The green waves of the Caspian Sea stretched to the blue horizon. I knew that it was really a huge lake, but because of its size, it was called a sea. Two ships were in the harbor, and maintenance crews dressed in gray overalls worked on the ship decks.
I heard somebody say that one of the ships was an oil tanker. Which one was our ticket to freedom? I wondered.
“Kontrola, kontrola,” came a voice from the crowd. The NKVD in their dark-blue uniforms were ordering people to open their bags and suitcases for inspection. I didn’t know what they were looking for.
My mother grabbed her little leather bag that held some jewelry and photos of my father and handed it to me without a word. I understood. I pressed the bag against my chest and grabbed my brother’s hand, and we both walked a little distance away from all the people, pretending to play in the sand with our feet. We stayed away until the NKVD passed my mother, and then we returned to her. We had no idea what they had been looking for or why.
The day dragged on, the merciless sun burning our backs. The air was humid, with very little breeze from the sea.
An old woman wearing a faded brown dress was sitting on the ground with her back against her suitcase. Her gray hair was tied at the back with a piece of black ribbon, and her thin hands were clasped in front of her. Her eyes were closed, and I assumed she was sleeping. A Polish soldier was walking about, checking on people. He noticed the woman and touched her arm. She didn’t move. He called, “Szybko, szybko, pomoc! Quick, quick, help!” Another soldier came running.
The two of them carried her away as the people standing around shook their heads sadly. I realized that she had died on the threshold of freedom. At that moment I also knew that I would never forget her.
At sunset I noticed some activity. Russian soldiers on horses were approaching the harbor, riding toward the oil tanker. As they passed by us, a Polish soldier announced, “The soldiers are going to the other side of the Caspian Sea to Baku, where large supplies of oil are concentrated. The Germans need the oil, so it has to be well guarded. After they finish boarding it will be our turn. We will start loading the other Soviet freighter.”
Another hour passed before we began moving forward. The NKVD and Polish representatives stood by the gangplanks, checking lists of names. Every once in a while a Russian official would ask somebody to step aside and a Polish soldier would try to explain the problem to the prospective passenger.
Fear contracted the muscles in my arms and legs. I recognized the feeling; it was the same fear that I had felt when the NKVD came to arrest us in our home in Poland, and the same emotion that had overwhelmed me in Kazakhstan when they wanted to take Antek and me away from our mother and put us in an orphanage. Would w
e be able to pass onto the ship? What if we were not allowed to leave? The next few steps toward freedom felt like the longest walk of my life.
When our turn came, my mother said, “Familia Mihulka.”
The NKVD soldier scanned the list, nodded, and motioned us forward. “Davai. Go.”
My grip on my mother’s hand relaxed as we continued walking up the wooden plank until we reached the deck. We found a spot in the middle of the boat, next to a wooden pole, and watched as more and more people came on board, filling up all the space until there was hardly any room to spare.
This Soviet freighter groaned under the weight of the refugees ready to sail across the Caspian Sea to freedom. For all I know, I might have been among those on this very ship. Photo courtesy of Franek Rymaszewski
At last the plank was lifted in preparation for departure. It was a moonless night; the only lights were some dim oil lamps at the front and back of the ship. I looked at the pale faces surrounding me, the poorly clad, half-starved bodies. Some people were praying; some were crying. I wondered if they were tears of hope and joy, or tears of sorrow at the graves they had left behind. I thought about my baby sister’s grave on the steppes of Kazakhstan and my cousin Nina, buried in a military cemetery in Yangi Yul.
The boat moved. Complete silence fell over the crowd. The only sound was the splash of waves hitting against the sides of the ship. The flicker of lights in the Krasnovodsk port was our last sight of the land where we had suffered so deeply. Soon they faded into the distance.
In the stillness of the night a song spontaneously arose from the crowd—the Polish national anthem: “Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła pòki my źyjemy! Poland is not lost so long as we still live!”
Afterword
In spite of all the amnesties and agreements, Stalin did not keep his word. Not long after we left the USSR, all permits and transports were stopped. More than 1.5 million people had been deported from their homes in eastern Poland; only about 130,000 of these deportees made it out of Russia. What happened to the others? Half of them died in labor camps and prisons or simply vanished, some were drafted into the Russian army, and a small number returned to Poland after the war. Those of us who made it out of Russia were the lucky ones.
Krysia Page 10