I was happy and felt honoured to be decorated but, at the same time, I was disappointed and disenchanted because it was considered a communist decoration.
As I left the building I took off my decoration and put it in my breast pocket. After the ceremony, Nałęcz said that he did not know what had happened. He had nominated me for the Virtuti Militari and instead I was awarded the Cross of Grunwald. Seven of the eleven recipients of the Cross of Grunwald had fought in the ranks of the AK during the Uprising. To this day, no one knows why some nominees were awarded this order while others got the Virtuti Militari though, apparently, they were all nominated for the Virtuti Militari.
Pobóg invited me to visit him at his new home. As a ‘military settler’ he was granted a small abandoned farm near Kartuzy, close to Gdynia. I accepted, and we agreed that I would be there in a week. A few days later I was on my way to Gdańsk to visit Pobóg and Nałęcz. I needed to take the midnight express from Szczecin to Warsaw. Most trains were still overcrowded at that time. All express trains included one special car set aside for officials but getting a seat in that car required a pass. I obtained the necessary pass from father and, having arrived at the station an hour early, I entered the official passenger car. I sat down in an empty place in the only first-class compartment in the middle of the wagon. The rest of the wagon, before and after this compartment, was third class with wooden benches. I had been sitting by the window when, ten minutes before departure, an army lieutenant entered our full compartment and announced in a loud voice: ‘Everybody out! This compartment is reserved for the colonel!’ The compartment emptied as people stood up, grabbed their luggage and left. I took the Cross of Grunwald out of my pocket and pinned it on my Boy Scout uniform. When everyone left, the lieutenant looked at me and shouted: ‘You, shithead, did I not tell you to get the hell out of here?’
Getting up, I slowly lowered my hands, and in a normal voice asked, ‘Who is the citizen lieutenant calling a shithead?’ (The communist government had tried unsuccessfully to change the customs of address. In place of Pan, meaning Mr or Sir, the official form was obywatel (citizen), as during the French Revolution. The Russian communist form of towarzysz (comrade) was used only between Communist Party members). He looked at my Cross, automatically came to attention and saluted. I calmly returned his salute. He apologised and explained that this compartment had been reserved for the colonel. After hearing him, and again addressing him as citizen lieutenant, I replied: ‘We now live in a free, democratic Poland where everyone is equal. I have the necessary pass to be in this car and I have the same right as the colonel to be in this compartment. Anyway, there’s enough room here for all of us.’ At that moment the colonel entered the compartment, looked around and seeing my Cross, said, in Russian:
Malchyk wy gieroy? (Little boy, you are a brave one?)
Da, gieroy. (Yes, brave.)
Bili Germanca? (Were you fighting Germans?)
Bili Germanca. (I was fighting Germans.)
Harasho ostansia. (Ok. Stay there.)
He gestured to where I was standing. Turning to the lieutenant, and an orderly who had followed him in, he pointed to the two small single seats on the other side of the compartment. The colonel sat down on the long upholstered bench opposite me, removed his belt, unbuttoned his tunic, lay down and covered himself with his overcoat. He looked at me, sitting opposite him in my short trousers and called out to the lieutenant to cover me with his overcoat. The lieutenant looked unhappy but complied. I slept well that night, all warm and cosy covered by the lieutenant’s military overcoat.
As our train arrived in Warsaw the following morning the colonel buttoned up his Polish uniform and put on his Polish military hat (which had the pre-war eagle with a crown). After they left, I removed the Cross of Grunwald and returned it to my pocket.
I changed trains in Warsaw and continued on to Gdańsk. The Harbour Guards headquarters were near Wrzeszcz station, where I got off the train and headed to Nałęcz’s office. We spent the rest of the day together and after overnighting at his place we drove the 20 miles west to Pobóg’s farm near Kartuzy.
Having heard our car, Pobóg was waiting outside when we arrived. Czajka was standing next to him although I didn’t recognise him immediately; he looked older, gaunt and tired. He had just returned to Poland after being released from a Siberian gulag. He found Pobóg’s address at the Association. Czajka was reluctant to talk about his time in Russia but he did confirm what I already knew from Witold of what happened to them. They crossed the Vistula; Edward was killed by a German police dog, while he and Witold decided to cross the front line separately. After making contact with some Russian soldiers he had been turned over to their military intelligence, accused of being a spy and deported to the gulag. Two years later he was released unexpectedly and without any explanation repatriated to Poland.
After a week I returned to Wrzeszcz and stayed with Nałęcz. Two days later we left in his car for Szczecin. Along the way he inspected the harbour at Koszalin. When we arrived in Szczecin, we paid a visit to mother. He made some excuse and did not accept her invitation to stay for dinner. That was the last time I saw him. He died in 1972 while I was in America.
Our new school year started. There were thirty students in our fourth and final year of gimnazium. This year we started Przysposobienie Wojskowe, paramilitary training. Our leader, a first lieutenant, was a political officer of the LWP and, no doubt, a member of the UB. On Saturdays we marched to the training grounds, formerly German Army property and drilled under his command. By that time the lawlessness of the Russian soldiers had finally been controlled. The remaining Russian troops kept to their barracks at the harbour, which was still under their control.
One Saturday in early October, while returning in marching formation from our drill, we came across a column of Russian soldiers marching in the opposite direction. They were lustily singing: ‘… vychadyila na byereg Katyusha …’ (Katyusha went out to the banks). The song was the Russian soldier’s equivalent of ‘Lili Marleen’. As the columns passed each other, we began to parody the Russian style of marching while shouting the words of Katyusha loudly and out of tune. Once the Russian column passed, our lieutenant halted our column, ordered about face and marched us back to the training ground. On his command, we stopped and formed into double ranks facing him. He brought us to attention and began berating us: ‘You shitheads! How dare you make fun of the Russian soldiers who shed their blood to bring us freedom, independence and democracy … I will show you … I will take you through this obstacle course until your swinging dicks scrape the ground.’
I took three steps forward, saluted and as he stopped rambling I said, ‘Citizen lieutenant, Cadet Hryniewicz reporting. It is now twenty minutes past 3 p.m. The school day ended at 3 p.m. lieutenant, sir! You no longer have authority over us. I am going home.’ I saluted, made a regulation about turn and started walking. The others followed me as the lieutenant yelled behind me: ‘You will report to me tomorrow morning!’
The next morning, I knocked on his door with my Cross, entered, stood at attention in front of his desk and saluted. I held my salute while he was pretending to read some papers. After a pregnant pause lasting a few minutes he looked up and immediately stood to return my salute. He gestured to me to sit down. After an awkward moment he cleared his throat and said, ‘You have a Cross of Grunwald.’ (He used the plural form of ‘you’ typical of the Russian language. Obviously he was trained there.) I showed him the certificate of award. When asked, I informed him that I was in the Warsaw Uprising and saw action in the old town. Three months before, on the second anniversary, I had been one of the eleven participants so decorated.
A ‘delicate’ conversation followed. He asked me why I had not worn the ribbon of the Cross before. I answered that I didn’t want to appear to be a show off. There are many others who deserved the award more than me. The Cross of Valour I had received during the Uprising was sufficient recognition for me.
Abou
t two weeks later; he called me to his office. ‘… So, you [again, the Russian plural] were not in the AL?’ he asked. ‘Where was the AL during the Uprising?’ I replied. He gave me a menacing look and dismissed me.
27
Escape from Poland, 11 November–25 December 1946
Polish National Independence Day, the most important national holiday, is celebrated on 11 November, commemorating the anniversary of the restoration of the Polish state in 1918. The holiday was celebrated briefly until 1946, when the communist government substituted it with 22 July (when the communists established the provisional government of Poland).
A few days prior to 11 November 1946, it was announced publicly that this day would no longer be celebrated as a holiday. We were told that classes would be held and attendance would be mandatory. When I arrived at school, there was noticeable unease and the students were disgruntled. During the break following our first class, I met up with Roman, Zbyszek Cych and other members of our Sailing Scouts squad. I suggested that we declare this day a national holiday and disband our classroom. When the second class started, Roman and I stood up, declared a national holiday and said, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here and go celebrate.’ The whole class stood up, left the classroom and went down the corridor banging on and opening doors to other classrooms. In a matter of minutes the entire school emptied. We divided into two groups. One headed to the girl’s gimnazium, the other to the Commerce Gymnasium. Hundreds of secondary school boys and girls walked along the main avenues, arms locked, singing national military songs. Armed Milicja appeared and a tense situation developed. Fortunately for us the police did not intervene. We returned to school the next day and acted as though nothing had happened. But there was tension in the air. We started to relax over the next few weeks as it appeared clear that there would be no official reaction to our stunt.
However, one day in early December, our classroom door opened and a pompous, official-looking man walked in followed by a sombre-faced headmaster and our teacher, crocodile tears streaming down her cheeks. In the front of the classroom was a large platform with a podium and pulpit. We all stood up. The pompous fellow climbed the podium, stood behind the pulpit then slowly stared at us standing next to our desks. He paused for a moment, and then swept his hand across the classroom and in a slow but loud voice proclaimed: ‘From this moment on … this class does not exist!’
There was a moment of stunned silence. Someone at the back of the classroom shouted ‘Z kurwy syn!’ (You son of a whore!) We all stood motionless as the man shouted frantically, ‘Who said that?! Who said that?! I’ll have you arrested!’ When he left, the headmaster announced that we were to take all of our belongings, leave the school building and not come back. We were all shaken by what had just transpired. A day or two later some parents of the expelled students met, formed a committee and sent a delegation to meet with the pompous man, who turned out to be in charge of all education in Szczecin. Two weeks later, he agreed to reinstate the class and to readmit all students, with the exception of the ringleaders – me and Roman. By then it was a week before Christmas. I decided to travel to Warsaw and try to enrol in a school there. Mother and I agreed that I would return no later than the 23rd, the day before Christmas Eve. My attempts to get into a school there were fruitless. First of all, I was not registered with the city administration as a resident of Warsaw, and second, I had been expelled for a serious disciplinary problem.
I returned on the morning of the 23rd. During breakfast, mother said that the day I left two UB officers had come to the apartment looking for me. She told them that I had gone to Miechów to enrol in school there. She assured them I would return for Christmas. I was to report to the Security Office immediately upon my return.
We had already been exploring different means of escaping Poland: crossing the border with the Russian Zone or on Swedish cargo ships loading coal in the harbour. While I was away in Warsaw, mother had found a route that seemed to be safe. She spoke with the Jurgens family and learned that they also wanted to return to the US Zone of Occupation in southern Germany. The plans had been already made. The next morning, together with Roman and his father, we would take a bus to Swinoujście. The Polish border with the Russian Zone of Occupation was only 3 miles west of there. We would then go to a pre-arranged restaurant, whose owner ran a smuggling ring and would lead us across the border. Roman’s mother, his younger sister and two of his mother’s sisters would follow separately a few days later. The Jurgenses decided to go separately; in the event that one party or the other were captured, at least a part of the family would be safe.
The next morning was 24 December. We left after breakfast, taking only one small bag and a backpack. Each contained several cartons of American cigarettes, a change of clothes and some food. Mother managed to obtain old German birth certificates for us. The certificates were authentic but both had different names. I was now Hans Maximillian Schmeling (Max Schmeling was a well-known German boxer who KO’d Joe Lewis).
My documents from the Uprising were very important to me and I insisted on bringing them. At first mother refused, but when I explained that if we were caught, the documents wouldn’t make any difference; the authorities would find out who we were regardless, she agreed.
We reached the bus station and climbed into the bus, another truck with wooden benches. Roman and his father were already seated, but we pretended not to know each other. Two hours later we arrived at Swinoujście. Our bus had travelled the same route we had taken to our scout camp a few months earlier. Reaching the island of Wolin, we continued west crossing the Usetom River, the Oder’s main branch and on to the harbour town of Swinoujście. We were now on the western barrier island, Usnam.
We walked over to our restaurant and sat down to order lunch. While ordering we asked our waiter for Mr X. As he served our meal, our waiter indicated a door behind us. After lunch we were to go through that door and wait there. While we were still eating, Roman and his father walked in and sat down at a different table. We finished our meal, paid the bill and stepped into the room indicated. Soon we were joined by the Jurgenses. The windowless storage room had a locked door to the outside. Inside it was cold and we kept our overcoats on as we sat there on cases of cold beer.
Our contact came by an hour later and explained that he would return at midnight with a guide. He and the guide would take us to the outskirts of town, where we would pay half of the agreed fee in US dollars. There would be another guide with some more people and both guides would take us to the border, less than 2 miles away. Our guide would show us where to cross the border. Then we would pay him the balance of his fee. While we were waiting, the sounds of merriment drifted in from the restaurant. It was Christmas Eve. The singing of Christmas carols had started. We wished each other Merry Christmas. Before midnight Mr X and another man came. We followed them outside and walked to the outskirts of town. The second guide, accompanied by eight men all carrying large backpacks, was waiting. The other group started out first and we followed. We overheard the men quietly speaking in German. Our guide explained that they were German smugglers carrying food, mostly meat products, into the Russian Zone, where food was scarce. We slipped into the woods and walked single file. The German smugglers and their guide were in the lead, followed by me and Roman, mother and Mr Jurgens with our guide bringing up the rear. We walked quietly heading west. The night was cold, around -5ºC. Snow covered the forest floor while above us the sky was clear with bright stars and a half-moon. Walking was easy; bright light from the moon, reflected off the snow, providing us with sufficient illumination.
Less than an hour later our guide told us to be absolutely quiet: we were approaching the border. I was surprised when we reached it – it was not what I had expected. We stood at the edge of the forest; in front of us was a cleared strip of land, 50ft wide. The border was brightly lit by a powerful searchlight, which had been mounted on the guardhouse roof, 150ft to our left. A highway passed by the guardhouse. The enti
re area surrounding the checkpoint was floodlit. We didn’t see a single guard but heard loud music, sounds of singing and slivers of conversation in Russian drifting from the guardhouse. A Russian Army truck drove in from the Polish side and two Russian soldiers stepped out to check papers. We heard them laughing and speaking Russian, finally the barrier was lifted and the truck proceeded into the Russian Zone. The two soldiers looked around, peered down along the border shielding their eyes, then turned around and walked back into the guardhouse. Once again we heard music, guards singing and laughing.
Our guide gathered us around and explained that the border further away, though not lit, was well patrolled by guards with trained dogs. Here the guards did not pay as much attention, assuming that no one would be so brazen as to pass right under their noses. His instructions were:
At my signal, one by one, run silently across the clearing. Once on the other side of the border, walk west perpendicular to it. Within 100 yards you will see a forest road. Turn right, walk another 200 yards to the railway track. This track is not in use. Turn left and follow it, away from the border, for 3 miles. There will be a small railway station. You will see only a few people; when the ticket booth opens, and no one is around, ask for tickets to Berlin and hand over two cartons of American cigarettes per person. Two trains depart every day from this station, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. It is a short ride, 28 miles, to a station at the other end of this island. The train does not continue on any further. All the bridges on the western side of the island are down. There is a military pontoon bridge that you will cross on foot. There will be a Russian-German checkpoint there and you need to be very careful. Once on the mainland continue to the nearby railway station. There take the train to Berlin.
My Boyhood War Page 24