Galician Trails: The Forgotten Story of One Family

by Zalewski, Andrew

  However, not all grasped the gravity of the situation. Amazingly, a leading Polish monthly reported the assassination, an event which would trigger unparalleled conflict, on its fourth page without any recognition of its importance. While the drama of diplomacy unfolded in the capitals of Europe throughout July 1914, the Stanislawow public read in its weekly papers about promotions in civil administration and obscure proceedings of the city council. Perhaps with a slower pace due to annual vacations, the antiestablishment paper wondered, with much less than its customary vitriol, if Dr. Nimhin would run in the next mayoral election. Those staying in the city during the summer months must have been disappointed to read that the military band would not play in the city park for six weeks, observing a period of official mourning.18 Indeed, this turned out to be true, and no alternative entertainment would be offered in Stanislawow, but for very different reasons. Cataclysmic events that would mark the end of one era and the beginning of another were about to erupt.

  IN THE NAME OF HIS MAJESTY the Emperor and Apostolic King Franz Joseph, the government of Austro-Hungary declared war on Serbia on July 28, 1914. The diplomatic note delivered to the Serbian government was simple in its message: “In light of the unsatisfactory answer of the Serbian Royal Government to the note of July 23, the Imperial and Royal Government [of Austro-Hungary] is forced to protect its rights and interests. To this end, the government [of Austro-Hungary] appeals to its military [to respond to the conflict]. From this moment, Austro-Hungary considers itself in a state of war with Serbia.” It was signed “Foreign Minister of Austro-Hungary, Berchtold.”

  There is never a right time to go to war, and this was certainly true in the summer of 1914. For a few days after the declaration of hostilities, many speculated—or indulged in wishful thinking—that the war might turn out to be just another local conflict in the Balkans.1 But such commentary in the press was rather unconvincing, and news from Russia about partial troop mobilization, which soon became a full call to arms, was ominous. Within days, the failure of diplomacy was apparent across the European continent. Polite but unyielding notes exchanged between ruling cousins, the German kaiser and the Russian tsar, were portrayed as last-ditch efforts that failed to avert the crisis. At first, there were only two countries at war, Austria and Serbia; but within days, Germany declared war on Russia, and then more than a dozen countries announced hostile actions against one party or another. The situation had evolved into a domino effect, becoming increasingly out of control.

  On August 5, the most anticipated event happened: The ambassador of Austro-Hungary delivered a note to the tsar’s government in St. Petersburg. It read, “In light of the aggressive stand taken by Russia in the conflict between the Austro-Hungarian monarchy and Serbia, and as the result of hostile actions [by Russia] against Germany, resulting in a state of war [between the two powers], Austro-Hungary also considers itself in a state of war with Russia.”

  The next day, headlines in Galicia screamed, “AUSTRIA IN WAR WITH RUSSIA.” As a brief, front-page editorial in one paper put it, now that the almost unbearable uncertainty of the past few days was over, there was a feeling of some relief that the war had finally started. In a major case of false prophecy, the paper reassured its readers that this storm almost certainly would be followed by a long period of calm. History would show that nothing was further from the truth.2

  At first, nobody knew what to call this war; somewhat confused newspapers initially reported each conflict as a separate event, although everyone quickly realized that what was unfolding would be very different from anything in the past. Soon, a somber feeling descended; this would not be a collection of unrelated shots or artillery fire in the east, west, and south of Europe. The General War, as it was sometimes referred to during those pregnant summer days, would become known as the Great War, a title that would underscore more than its geographical scope.

  My grandmother’s recollection of World War I was later diminished by the even more horrific events of the other war that erupted in Europe some 25 years later. In a sense, the experience of two world wars in the lifetime of a single generation was too much. No one’s memory could be expected to put them on an equal level, as the escalated carnage wrought by the second conflict tended to overshadow the suffering of the first. What Helena remembered about the Great War was repeated marches of big armies back and forth around Bohorodczany and Stanislawow. She spoke of the heavy use of artillery and the intermittent bombardments that, as we will see, came so close to home.

  When the order for general mobilization came, the scope of preparations reached a massive scale. Facing war with Russia, with its almost limitless human resources, Austro-Hungary called out army, navy, and auxiliary forces that would soon grow to more than 1.5 million. This figure, as high as it might seem, was only a prelude to the greater and greater numbers who would serve.3 Besides young men of draft age and military reservists aged 19 to 42, in some circumstances, men up to age 60 were called. Those qualifying for service were to start their journeys to military posts no later than 24 hours after seeing an announcement in a newspaper or on display at a public square. In addition to the throngs of men, great numbers of horses were collected from villagers. The army needed all the power it could get to move troops, and pull heavy artillery and other equipment.4

  General mobilization in Austro-Hungary on July 31, 1914. (Wiener Bilder August 9, 1914; ŐNB, Vienna.)

  Franciscus Sobolewski, my grandfather, was one of those who responded to the general mobilization order. A junior officer in the reserve, Franciscus was leaving behind a new wife and a daughter less than a year old. To make matters worse, Helena, my grandmother, was pregnant with their second child. We can safely assume that, in the tense moments just before Franciscus left Bohorodoczany, he and Helena privately whispered their hopes that the war would soon be over. It would not be a surprise if, like many in those days, they thought that this conflict would last only a year or so. On August 1, 1914, the couple said their final good-byes either in Bohorodczany or in Stanislawow, where Franciscus reported for military service. The sights around them would have been like nothing they had seen before; all the roads were packed, and Stanislawow was overflowing with soldiers or soon-to-be soldiers, camping on public squares while awaiting orders. The army barracks on the city outskirts were simply too small to accommodate everyone. Within days, Franciscus Sobolewski, now a second lieutenant in the 58th Infantry Regiment, was deployed to the front line with thousands of others. As he headed toward the Russian border, he had no way of knowing that it would be not a few months or a year but many years before he and Helena would be reunited. Even then, they would find themselves in a very different world than the one Franciscus was leaving behind.

  At first, crowds of onlookers in Stanislawow watched, with curiosity, the movement of the troops and their equipment across the city; but soon that became the norm. The railroad station was a place of apprehension and some chaos, and not just for departing troops. Many of those staying behind worried whether the few still operating trains would be able to bring back family members hastily returning from summer vacations, or take on board civilians who were stranded in the city. Within a few days of the declaration of war, local schools and the railroad terminal had been converted to field hospitals, staffed by an increasing number of Red Cross personnel in their characteristically marked armbands.5 It was no illusion that, with the Russian border so close, it would be only a matter of time before many wounded would start arriving. But nobody suspected that the red cross on a white background would remain a common sight for years to come, signaling not just the availability of medical help but the real danger of injuries and loss of life.

  For a brief time, many believed in the argument that modern methods of troop transport favored decisive military actions. Others mentioned the unsustainable cost of any global conflict—which, it was said, could only shorten the war.6 In any case, initial news from the front lines was good. In the north, German allies fighting in
the Masurian Lakes region of East Prussia inflicted real damage on the Russian army. In the south, Russia was retreating from the part of Poland previously in its hands; the void was filled by Austrian troops from western Galicia marching north. But the optimism quickly turned out to be premature. By mid-August, the Russian army suddenly poured from the east into Galicia and Bukovina. Along a quickly moving front, their attack was fierce; battles engulfed many towns and villages, including Bohorodczany. Swirling suspicions about Russian sympathizers and spies added to rising tensions among civilians. In Stanislawow, under extraordinary military powers, preventive arrests of Greek Catholic clergy, Ukrainian teachers, and peasants (all suspected of being “Muscophiles”) were recurring news in August.7

  Whether Helena and her 10-month-old daughter stayed at home or went to Stanislawow to join her family is not known; in any case, the larger city would not offer much protection. Certainly, the situation did not look good in Stanislawow when the savings bank shut its doors and evacuated all its assets to the safety of Budapest. On September 2, Austro-Hungarian troops withdrew from the city; the sound of explosions marked their intentional destruction of bridges as they fled. That only added to an atmosphere that was growing ever tenser, as residents anxiously awaited whatever would come next. At first, the vanguard unit of the enemy galloped hurriedly through the main streets without stopping. By the following day, however, the feared Cossacks had settled in for good, extracting ransoms in the form of watches or money at random to ensure free passage.8

  Next in the line of fire was Galicia’s capital, Lvov. Under the rules of military censorship, newspapers could freely report events from the western front; but any news around the city was conspicuously absent, even though the sound of nearby artillery was quite audible. In the closing days of August, fierce combat took place as the Russian army quickly encircled Lvov. On August 30, headline read, “BIG BATTLE. Vienna. Official reports from the war press headquarters: Big battle that started on August 26 continues. Situation of our troops is favorable. The weather is warm and sunny.” The outcome, however, was all but favorable, with 30,000 soldiers and hundreds of officers taken prisoner by the victorious Russians. On September 2, Lvov was declared an open city to avoid its destruction at enemy hands. The next day at seven o’clock a.m., one-page fliers were everywhere; the appeal by city officials read, “CITIZENS! The Army of [the Austro-Hungarian] Monarchy has suffered serious losses and retreated west. In a short time, the winning Russian army is expected to enter Lvov.” In hopes that the city and its stunned population would remain safe, a plea for calm followed. On the same day, mounted Cossacks trotted through the center of Lvov.9

  Feared Cossacks crossing the Carpathian Mountain passes to Hungary. Only the arrival of winter halted their conquest of Austro-Hungary. (Nowosci Illustrowane October 3, 1914.)

  The bad news would continue for several weeks, if not months. The Russians pressed hard west, taking over not only eastern but also large parts of western Galicia. There would even be talk of their army soon attacking Cracow, effectively ending Austro-Hungarian sovereignty over the province. The threat seemed so real that the evacuation of Cracow was ordered; many left the city for temporary stays in Moravia or joined thousands of Galician refugees already descending on Vienna. Although Cracow would ultimately remain safe, Austro-Hungary suffered losses in the south of Galicia as well. By the end of September, Russians were approaching the Carpathian Mountains. Here the prize for the tsar’s army was a quick push toward the Hungarian plains, the soft underbelly of the empire. The Cossacks, a highly mobile and brutal force, were probing for weak points in the front line; they soon started to appear on the other side, having crossed through a few unmanned passes. Despite the military censorship put in place in Galicia, there was news of panic among those in the path of this advance force.10 Luckily, however, high mountain peaks with heavy winter snowfalls halted the Russian army; its infantry units were unable to surmount this natural barrier, which separated Galicia from the center of Austro-Hungary.

  The Russian occupation of Galicia was harsh, and not just in a physical sense; it also became an example of clumsy political judgment. Dealing with strands of a multiethnic society that were often at odds with each other, the occupiers would have found no shortage of supporters—had they not managed to alienate everyone. As it was, there were food shortages and curfews in the cities. The salaries and pensions of teachers and railway employees were not paid for months, under the pretext that money had been evacuated to the western part of Galicia. Then anxiety was heightened by swirling rumors that the Russians were not committed to the obligations of the prior government, although for the moment they required all members of the civil administration to report to work. In a small conciliatory gesture, the first military governor allowed schools to open, which was good news for Helena, among many others. She was then able to return to the classroom, providing at least some support for her and her daughter.

  The illusion that life was returning to normal did not last long. Soon, it became evident that the victors had very different ideas about running Galicia. Tight censorship was introduced, with stern warnings to owners of bookstores, libraries, and theaters about fines and the risk of imprisonment in case of anti-Russian publications or performances. The few lucky newspapers allowed to circulate were smaller in volume and bland in content but devoid of any openly pro-Russian stance. Occasional empty spaces on their pages served as reminders of military censors.

  With the arrival of a new military governor by the end of September, the Russification of Galicia went into full swing.11 An unidentified Russian officer allegedly summed up the occupiers’ prevailing view of eastern Galicia: “A strange country [with] Russian land, Jewish money, [and] the Polish language. Making it [truly] Russian means getting rid of the Jewish capital and uprooting the Polish language. That is our purpose.”12 (Although the authenticity of this statement cannot be confirmed, the message does chillingly presage what happened after World War II in those territories.) Within a few months, schools all over the province were shut down until new teachers, able to provide instruction in Russian, could be brought from the east. Troubling reports started to trickle in that one hundred elementary schools, staffed solely by Russian teachers, were to open in the near future. That prospect certainly meant more financial hardship for Helena who, like many other teachers, would now be unable to receive a salary.13

  In Stanislawow, there were already many layoffs within the civil administration. The mayor, Dr. Nimhin, was suddenly portrayed as a crook who had collected a salary advance in the waning days of August only to appear later in the safety of Vienna. To make matters worse, troubling reports surfaced of a large, newly discovered deficit in the city finances. Under the circumstances, it was certainly difficult to distinguish truth from the misinformation being used to justify hardships. There would be an additional period of anxiety for Joseph and Stephania Regiec, Helena’s parents, who must have wondered whether Russians would replace Galician railway administrators with their own. Even if Joseph was fortunate enough to retain his position as superintendent, he would certainly not receive his salary until well into the next year. The civilian government of the occupied city appealed to Vienna to help pay the railway employees. But these pleas fell on deaf ears. It was, of course, unrealistic to expect a belligerent country to honor any payment to those now behind the front line.”14

  Autumn was punctuated by other signs of troubled times, mixed with fleeting glimpses of hope. Toward the end of October 1914, a vanguard of Polish riflemen from the Austrian military reached the streets of Bohorodczany in a surprise counterattack. Later, stories would be told about the bravery of boys turned soldiers, and even surprising gestures of compassion on the part of the Russians, suddenly facing what was not exactly a seasoned, professional army. A stunned nurse at the hospital in Stanislawow recalled a Cossack carrying in a lightly wounded 13-year-old who had charged him with a bayonet. The fierce warrior, it was said, walked in with the attac
ker in his arms and murmured “Вот какой солдат” (“What a soldier”). But as uplifting as this might have been to those living further away, we can safely assume that to Helena, the sound of gunfire in town only added to her sense of insecurity. In any case, hopes for the liberation of Bohorodczany and Stanislawow were quickly dashed, as the Russians easily pushed back the inexperienced attackers. In just a few days, captured young soldiers started to arrive in Stanislawow before being sent to prison in Russia.15

  Cossacks in Stanislawow. With every new wave of Russian occupation and retreat, Cossacks plundered the city. (Wiener Bilder August 1, 1915; ŐNB, Vienna.)

  On a grander scale, the Russian government was intent on speeding up Russification of the conquered territories. In the zeal to remake eastern Galicia into part of the tsar’s empire, many poorly educated and incompetent Russian workers were dispatched there, replacing members of the prewar bureaucracy dominated by Poles. As a result, the province was brought almost to a standstill. And the hostility of the victors was directed at others as well. Surprisingly, most of the Ukrainian population was suspected of being disloyal and was frequently targeted with deportation and imprisonment in Russia. Use of the Ukrainian language was discouraged, if not forbidden, in some areas. The Greek Catholic Church, which had embodied the awakening of a national identity among Ruthenians, was now under attack, with parishioners forced to convert to the Orthodox faith. The metropolitan, head of the Church—a generally revered and conciliatory figure—was deported to Russia. To further discredit him, a story about his transfer under humiliating military escort was reported in the press, along with disparaging remarks.16 The New York Times would publish an emotional protest by Ukrainian parliamentarians in Vienna decrying the loss of all the freedoms that their constituents had been able to gain under Austro-Hungarian rule. These people refused to be labeled “Little Russians,” insisting on their linguistic and cultural differences from the new masters of Galicia.17