Galician Trails: The Forgotten Story of One Family

by Zalewski, Andrew

  Finally, the Jews of Galicia were the objects of harsh repression as well. Because of many cultural links, as well as the emancipation they had received under the Austro-Hungarian monarchy, Jews felt generally loyal to Vienna. Many, like the family of my paternal grandfather, Joachim Hübner, spoke German at home and would later send their children to Austrian universities. These factors, in combination with the traditional anti-Semitic policies of Russia, were enough to make the arriving occupiers treat this segment of Galician society with suspicion. Jews, often accused of spying, were soon forbidden to send any mail in Yiddish—under a military order excluding it from the list of “officially” sanctioned languages. The post office, which accepted only unsealed letters, simply destroyed any that were written in a language not on the official list. Suspicious articles with questionable intentions started to appear in newspapers, raising the purported Jewish issue with regard to any postwar arrangements. The culmination of this anti-Jewish mania was a military governor’s ruling that disallowed travel by Jews, even within occupied Galicia, and forbade repatriation for those who wanted to return to homes outside occupied territories. Many Jews, like the Poles and Ukrainians, were forcefully deported to Russia.18

  The year 1915 was difficult in many ways. A largely forgotten war episode, the so-called Carpathian campaign, took place not far from home. It was a brutal battle between Austro-Hungarian and Russian troops, fighting over mountain passes. Heavy snow, frostbite, and barbed wire inflicted additional wounds on both sides over a period of months. The horrific conditions were emphasized when reports started to trickle in of dead or injured soldiers falling prey to wolves. Austro-Hungarian troops started to falter, and only with the help of arriving Germans was the Russian offensive toward the south halted. The cycle of frequent offensives and counteroffensives, each costing lives and tens of thousands of captured prisoners, was to repeat itself over the next several months.

  The Carpathian campaign in the winter of 1915. (Wiener Bilder April 11, 1915; ŐNB, Vienna.)

  In early February, heavy fighting took place just south of Bohorodczany and other towns along the River Bystrzyca, with troops often fighting in snow above their waists. Then, one after another, groups of Russian soldiers, much less confident than they had been weeks before, retreated through Bohorodczany toward Stanislawow. The tide of events was changing; the Austro-Hungarian army was pushing the Russians back. On the morning of February 18, 1915, just a few mounted cavalrymen (called lancers) were spotted in the center of Stanislawow looking for marauding Cossacks. By noon, the full force of the Austrian army was marching through the city streets; the rear guard of the Russian troops was gone.19 To the disappointment of many, the local 58th Infantry Regiment, including Franciscus Sobolewski, was not part of this offensive.

  Stanislawow. The aftermath of the Russian artillery attack in February 1915. The photograph shows destruction on Karpinski Street.

  With Stanislawow recaptured, hatred toward collaborators became quite apparent; a mob destroyed homes of those who had assisted the occupiers. But the battle for the city was not yet over. A barrage of Russian artillery fire rained down for five days, with 200 people reported dead or wounded. Even the Red Cross hospital operating on the city outskirts was shelled, with a few projectiles landing among its patients. In some parts of Stanislawow, gaping holes in buildings and shattered glass became common sights, although fortunately for the Regiec family, St. Joseph Street escaped major damage.20

  After 11 days, the Russians counterattacked, reoccupying the city. Before they entered, however, up to a thousand civil administrators, mainly railway employees, had managed to escape with the retreating Austrians. But as far as we know, Joseph Regiec was among those who remained at home. Those who stayed behind would later recall that the returning Russian troops pillaged abandoned houses along city thoroughfares.21

  With the front lines shifting back and forth, heavy fighting would continue in the surrounding region for the next few months. This was the backdrop as Helena gave birth to her second child. We do not know much about this little girl, who was most likely born early in 1915—not even her name. My grandmother only mentioned once that her older child, Irena, was quite persistent in seeking her mother’s attention after the new baby arrived. Tragically, this second daughter lived for only a couple of years. There were frequent outbreaks of typhus, cholera, and dysentery —and, not surprisingly, young children were the most vulnerable.22 Many decades later, when I asked whether she ever missed her younger child, my grandmother would hurriedly brush away my question, saying that the events of those days had not allowed her to feel sad for too long. The quickness of her response was, I felt, the response in itself. Hers was a generation that had become hardened quite fast and could not afford the luxury of self-pity. Without any doubt, however, this experience would make my grandmother intensely protective of her older daughter for the rest of her life.

  WITH THE ARRIVAL OF spring, a new offensive by Austrian and German troops started in the Carpathian Mountains. This time, the objective was to inflict punishing damage to Russian lines at multiple points on the front. The brunt of the attack was concentrated on western Galicia, not far from the towns of Biecz and Nowy Sacz, which we visited when following the life of the Lösch family in more stable times. Even the highly censored newspapers warily announced, “BIG BATTLE BETWEEN VISTULA [RIVER] AND CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS.” Within days, news of a Russian retreat became known.

  Hrebenow after the spring offensive of 1915. Franciscus Sobolewski was taken prisoner in the vicinity of this bridge by the Russian forces. (ŐNB, Vienna.)

  Along mountains and valleys at the eastern end of the front line, a push north was also moving ahead. Toward the end of April, the 58th Infantry Regiment was operating near one of the few passes that perilously connected Galicia and Hungary. A branch of the railroad wound through narrow valleys there, crossing mountain bridges and passing through a few tunnels. Whichever side controlled this artery could move troops in either direction. Austro-Hungarian troops maneuvered slowly, leaving behind peaks that rose from 2,000 to 3,200 feet. The grueling fighting continued, and progress was hard, as a company of soldiers commanded by the recently promoted lieutenant Franciscus Sobolewski pushed north.23 On May 1, in one of the twists and turns of battle, Franciscus was taken prisoner near a village called Hrebenow. With the Great War fought on so many fronts over endless hundreds of miles, it is a cruel irony that he was captured so close to home; Hrebenow was barely 90 miles from Helena and the rest of the family. Under the circumstances, any sense of comfort that he might have felt at being there would have quickly evaporated. Instead, uncertainty over Franciscus’s future would cast a long shadow, and many years would pass before Helena and Franciscus would see each other again.

  It is one of the paradoxes of war that an individual’s fate does not always march in lockstep with the grand picture of the conflict. Clearly, the tide in eastern Galicia was quickly turning in favor of those who had been losing less than a year before. Soon, the Russian military command could no longer hide the fact that its army was retreating from the Carpathians under heavy attack.24 The plan of the Austro-Hungarian and German forces was now clear: Their armies were moving steadily to encircle Lvov from the west, south, and east. The Russian press, in the face of defeat, would state nonchalantly that the capital of Galicia had no strategic importance. By mid-May, Austrians were already within 40 miles of Lvov, although the pincer of the encirclement was not yet ready to finish the job. Seeing the beginning of the end, the Russian military ordered forced deportation of the male population of Galicia from 18 to 50 years of age—to avoid their recruitment into the returning Austro-Hungarian army. In a perverse way, the Russians’ anti-Semitic policies did at least some good; Jews were excluded from this draconian order.25 On June 6, 1915, the first German military scouts, fighting as an advance of Austrian units, were spotted on the streets of Stanislawow; within days, the city had been liberated by Austro-Hungarian troops under the com
mand of Archduke Joseph Ferdinand.26 With any historical sensitivities brushed aside for the moment, most of the populace rejoiced at the entry of “our” troops.

  Austrian cavalry units closing on Lvov in June 1915. (Wiener Bilder June 26, 1915; ŐNB, Vienna.)

  Events were also unfolding rapidly in the rest of Galicia. The Austrian encirclement of Lvov was soon complete; inside the city, civil unrest, robbery, and arson would punctuate the next few days. Finally, on June 22, 1915, the capital city was declared free. The happy news traveled fast, and celebrations broke out all over the province. Even as far away as Vienna, the liberation of Lvov and Stanislawow was greeted with enthusiasm, as if the tides of war were finally turning. Within days, Franz Joseph, surrounded by his family, was waving to cheering crowds from the balcony of Schönbrunn Palace.27

  The Russian army’s retreat from Galicia in the summer of 1915. (Wiener Bilder August 8, 1915; ŐNB, Vienna.)

  In eastern Galicia, roads and eastbound trains were choked with hastily escaping Muscophiles and anyone from Russia, all fearful that the time of reckoning would soon arrive. Russian authorities, seeing their impending defeat, issued thousands of passports to their collaborators. At the same time, they also interned the top civil administrators of many Galician cities deep inside Russia; the idea was to create as much havoc as possible in the territories.28 The throngs of escapees now seriously impeded any chance of an orderly military retreat, not to mention any deployment of fresh occupying forces. Those were needed to relieve Russian units in the many hot spots along the front line. Unable to move freely through congested roads, and fearful of capture by advancing Austrians and Germans, Russians abandoned their military hardware, leaving heavy artillery barely hidden in the forests. By the end of summer, the Great Retreat (as it would later be called) had left behind a devastated Galicia, with many of its citizens dead or missing—but at least it was free of the Russian army.29

  The outlook in Galicia was far from bright. Crops had been left unattended or had simply not been planted during the military campaign; autumn brought food shortages. Prices were rising, and rationing of bread, sugar, and flour was introduced in Stanislawow. Deadly outbreaks of smallpox and cholera swept the province; local papers printed the names and addresses of those who succumbed to disease. Although Galicia was nominally free, it remained under military rule. Travel to and from Stanislawow was still limited, given the proximity of the city to the Russian border. Even worse, the Austro-Hungarian army had been depleted of men able to fight, so it clearly lacked the resources for any future actions. New waves of recruits, each time older than before, were repeatedly called up. Orders to turn over metal household items to be melted down for military purposes added to the general feeling that the war was not over.

  New recruits are drafted to the depleted Austro-Hungarian army in Galicia. (Wiener Bilder August 1, 1915; ŐNB, Vienna.)

  Patriotic fervor among Galician Poles was whipped up by stories about the Polish Legions, military units fighting with the Central powers against Russia; many viewed them as a first step toward future independence.30 Fundraising efforts in support of the legions and of wounded soldiers recovering in local hospitals were widespread. There were many acts of generosity, both large and small. A remarkable Jewish woman donated a large sum of money to a charity run by the Roman Catholic Church, sending a simple message focusing on compassion. In return, the prelate of Stanislawow publicly expressed his gratitude to her. This was a powerful message that spoke volumes against the prejudices of the past. Wanda Regiec, Helena’s sister, also made contributions, on a much smaller scale, to the legions. She was not wealthy, as music lessons were not the most sought-after activities in that time; nonetheless, she offered her small savings for a welcoming reception for the legionnaires, who passed through Stanislawow one day. Later, she donated money for Christmas gifts to be sent to the cherished unit. Helena was most likely involved, too; the packages from Stanislawow and Bohorodczany, containing food, clothing, and earmuffs, were sent on behalf of the Women’s Leagues from both towns.31

  For Helena and the entire Sobolewski clan in Bohorodczany, this was also a period of great anxiety, with no news of what had happened to Franciscus. The first question, whether he was dead or alive, would be answered by the Austro-Hungarian army, which had kept detailed records of the fallen. Luckily, his name was not among those who had died on the battlefield, though “missing in action” did not guarantee survival either. It would be months before Lieutenant Franciscus Sobolewski was mentioned by another prisoner of war who wrote home from an internment camp in the city of Astrakhan, near the Caspian Sea.32

  Irena Sobolewska (1913–1998). This picture of Irena was sent to her father when he was held in a POW camp in Russia. On the back, the text written by Helena, Irena’s mother, reads, “To Beloved Daddy from Kiki. February 18, 1916.”

  Since there was no direct communication between the belligerent countries, short messages from captured soldiers were being managed by the Red Cross. This was truly “snail mail” but still better than none, with plain postcards often routed through other countries before they made their way home, months later. Franciscus was unharmed and would later end up in Samara, an industrial town deep in southeast Russia on the banks of the Volga River. The distance from Bohorodczany was frightening—more than 2,000 miles—but at home there was a sigh of relief at the knowledge that he was healthy and not being held in the even-more-feared Siberia. In time, Helena was somehow able to send him a letter with a small picture of “Irka,” who was then two years old, dressed in a furry winter outfit and looking resolutely into the camera. A few copies of this picture have survived, including the one that belonged to Franciscus. The nickname of their daughter is inscribed on the back in my grandmother’s handwriting, and a small pinhole remains at the top. One could imagine that it was affixed above Franciscus’s cot for the next few years, somewhere deep in Russia.

  The dawning of 1916 brought hope, once again, that the new year would decide the fate of Europe. It was almost impossible for anyone to believe that this war could last much longer. Some went even further, making unrealistic proposals for the elderly Franz Joseph to be crowned constitutional monarch of the future Kingdom of Poland which, along with the kingdoms of Hungary and Croatia, could be equal partners with Austria under the Habsburgs.33 Time after time, however, the turn of events proved predictions utterly wrong.

  In eastern Galicia, some semblance of normalcy coexisted with constant fear of what might be next. In June, there were inklings that a new offensive in the east was imminent. In another case of bad timing, one sleepy Sunday morning, when a massive Russian offensive had already started (but news of it had not arrived yet), a newspaper in Lvov reported that the reorganization of the Russian army was complete, with the appointment of a new commander. This time correctly, a brief note concluded that a great offensive would be launched at the insistence of the western Allies, with the hope that opening another front in the east would resolve a deadly stalemate in France.

  Map of the Brusilov Offensive of 1916. The planned direction of the attack is shown on this page. The actual front lines are depicted on the opposite page. Russian troops reoccupied Stanislawow and Bohorodczany in August 1916. The armed hostilities continued for months to the west of the two towns.

  (Modified with permission of the Department of History, United States Military Academy.)

  Indeed, the Russians’ main attack did concentrate on the southern part of the eastern front, including Galicia. Its purpose was to inflict punishing damage on the Central powers at multiple points, and retake Lvov. The Russian commander, General Brusilov, who was experienced from the prior Galician campaign, envisioned brief curtain artillery fires followed by units of shock troops breaking through weaknesses in Austrian defenses. The mobility and speed of his troops were the essence of a new strategy. At first, the plan worked; Russians moved swiftly in the south, overrunning Czerniowce, the main town in Bukovina (where Joseph Regiec had worked years
before), and soon reached the Carpathian Mountains. This was a bloody battle; in the aftermath, hundreds of dead bodies, rather than logs, floated down the River Prut.

  By the end of June, the picture in Stanislawow was changing to a regrettably familiar one; hundreds crowded the train station awaiting what might be the last train to take them away from the coming invasion.34 In Lvov, a terse statement, heavily underlined as though more emphasis was needed, was printed on the front page of the newspaper: “Based on information from a very competent military source, the current situation should not cause any concern for [the city of] Lvov and its citizens.”35 But fighting to the east was fierce, with hand-to-hand battles bringing attackers closer and closer to the outskirts of Stanislawow.

  In that city, things did not look good; government employees, Jewish merchants, and refugees were moving west to safety. A few thousand Russian POWs were evacuated as well. Not long before, the Austrian military command had reassured the public that Stanislawow would not fall into enemy hands. But now onlookers saw long columns of infantry and then cavalry passing through the streets in a direction away from the distant boom of artillery fire. The signs were clear that an order for evacuation had come, but accidents plagued the withdrawal; several overcrowded trains even collided with each other.

  By August 11, 1916, Stanislawow and Bohorodczany had fallen into Russian hands for the third time.36 Just a few days later, the war was ratcheted up by the entry of neighboring Romania on the side of Russia. Whether this had any impact on the tsar’s campaign would be debated by historians; but it is certain that with the arrival of additional German troops, the Russian invasion stalled and never reached Lvov. No doubt this was welcome news but, for the moment, those left in Stanislawow and Bohorodczany had the misfortune of being on the wrong side of the front. They would have to endure another period of uncertainty. The Brusilov Offensive, as this campaign would be called, damaged the Austro-Hungarian army’s ability to fight on its own, without the support of Germany. The cost of this local spectacle in the global theater of war was staggering; both sides lost more than a million lives, and countless numbers of soldiers were wounded or captured.