The Long Walk

by Slavomir Rawicz

  The weeks slipped by into the middle of May and we noted gratefully the first signs of the short Siberian spring. The wind was milder, there were a few buds on the trees. Overhead we heard the beat of wings and looked up to see geese and ducks flying in to their summer feeding and breeding places. The streams we crossed were still frozen hard and the carpet of snow lay undisturbed, but conditions generally were easier and we felt the worst climatic hardships were behind us.

  The last thing we wanted was to meet other men and in this our luck held. We crossed the very occasional roads only after thorough reconnaissance. There were nights when we saw afar the lights of a village or small township. There were days when we saw the faraway outlines of buildings and tall chimneys plumed with white smoke. In these areas we proceeded with extra caution.

  At times there were minor outbursts of irritation and temper, almost always at the end of a particularly trying day’s march and almost always concerned with the allocation of camp duties before settling down for the night. But they were short-lived. Happily, among the seven there was no clash of personality between any two men. It was not necessary for anyone to impose a one-man leadership. Helpful suggestions from whatever quarter were accepted and acted upon. If there was divided opinion on any issue, Elder Counsellor Smith, by general consent, gave the casting vote and a course once decided on in this fashion was never questioned thereafter. The few altercations about camp duties were usually ended by Kolemenos, who never argued with anybody, walking off and doing whatever had to be done. He always did more than his share without thinking about it, a tireless, generous and altogether admirable gentleman.

  Oddly, we knew we were near Lake Baikal a couple of days before we actually saw it. We became aware of the peculiar smell of water, combined with the faint flat fragrance of water plants and indefinable other things that bring nostalgia to people who have dwelt beside great waters. We still had not reached the lake when we came upon a heap of the bones of big fish. There was no water near this spot and we speculated how they had got there. Coming down from the Baikal Range, we began to meet real roads, probably of secondary importance but far better than anything we had encountered since we broke from camp. Borne on the wind from the direction of the lake came the sound of a distant factory hooter.

  We came to a high point from which we could look down into a valley and we decided excitedly this must be the beginning of Baikal. Miles away to the west groups of factory buildings caught the eye. The panorama included a view of massive ochre-coloured rocks wearing copses of firs like a savage’s dark top-knot. Alongside the water at one point was a huddle of sturdy small wooden houses, beside them a few upturned boats and spaced-out wooden poles such as fishermen use for drying their nets. Visibility was excellent, the air was still and the smoke from the factory chimneys went pencil-straight into the sky. Nothing moved in the fishing hamlet and we wondered if the houses were used only during summer. Far below, between us and the water, there wound a road alongside which were telephone poles with their big white insulators carrying a weight of wires which indicated the presence of a fairly important highway. Our difficulty was to discover at what point we had struck the lake. We talked it over and finally made up our minds that we had swung too far west and were now somewhere near the northeast corner. This meant that we should have to follow the north shore westwards until it turned down to point our route through Southern Siberia.

  For upwards of an hour the seven of us squatted there, absorbed in the widespread scene below. Once we thought we heard the hoot of a steamer siren. All of us were in good humour at the thought of having attained another objective on our long trek south. We exchanged opinions, we faced the fact that our food supplies were down to a few scraps, including some small pieces of high-smelling venison. We talked of Baikal and I told the others it was claimed as the world’s deepest lake, a great, scooped-out basin nearly a mile deep in parts. I recalled the story told me by an uncle who had fought with the White Russians in Siberia of the disaster which overtook the remnants of an anti-Bolshevik army which had tried to cross the frozen lake. The Baikal was not frozen in the middle and the fleeing men had died in their hundreds. I vaguely remembered reading reports that this vast stretch of water, restless with the strong underwater currents of the many turbulent rivers which fed it, could never be completely frozen over.

  Smith finally broke up the session. ‘Let’s go down and take a look round,’ he suggested.

  It took longer than we expected to reach the road. A weather-beaten signboard showed the direction and distance of a town, or village, named Chichevka, which must have been the place with the factories we had seen from the heights. We bolted smartly across the road into the undergrowth on the other side. Between us and the lakeside was a mile of flattish country in which junipers grew in profusion amid oak, ash, birch, lime and willow. Thriving in damper soil were tall, rustling bamboo-like plants. We broke through a fringe of small trees to find ourselves on the edge of a river. I held up my hand and the others closed in from left and right.

  We had to decide whether or not to cross. It was only about 150 yards wide but the ice had broken up in the middle channel and the brown water swirled on a swift current. Here we found that all of us could swim. The general opinion was that as we should have to negotiate many rivers from now on, there was no point in delaying our first test. I volunteered to go first and we unwound our yards of rawhide strap from about our waists to make a safety line. Each man had up to seven turns of the stuff around him and the joined line was impressively long. The others kept watch as I trod carefully out on to the ice edge. It gave way suddenly with a crack and I was in and gasping to get my breath. I struck out the short distance to the ice across the channel, reached it and tried to climb up. The ice broke away and I tried again. It seemed a long time before I was able to haul myself out and then I crawled flat on my stomach a few yards before I risked standing. Chilled and miserably wet, I signalled the others to follow.

  It was not so difficult for the rest but no less uncomfortable. They came across with the line to guide them, one by one, and Smith, the last over, was hauled over with the other end of the line around his waist. The next time I went over one of these half-frozen rivers I took the axe with me and chopped away at the ice until the blade bit in, using it to help me out of the water.

  We ran under cover as quickly as we could and then took off our three garments — the padded trousers and jacket and the fur waistcoats — one by one and wrung as much water out as we could. We put them on again to dry on our bodies and went off briskly towards the lake to bring back circulation to our limbs. We sighted the lake, took our bearings and swung away eastward.

  Late in the afternoon we huddled together to make plans for the next immediate stage of the journey. Common sense dictated that to hug the lake verge too closely was to invite discovery by inhabitants of the fishing villages or semi-industrial townships, well spaced here in the north but clustering thicker together on the southern side towards the sizable cities within reach of the Trans-Siberian Railway. The proposal we all approved, therefore, was to bear away north and make our way clear of roads and towns on a course parallel with but safely distant from the lake. We accordingly set off obliquely north-east, aiming to cross the road again farther along. Our clothes were still damp and we moved at a fast pace to dry ourselves off. We had covered about five miles when we saw ahead of us a line of trees marking the bank of another river.

  Over to my right Zaro gave the halt and alert signal with upraised arm. I repeated the signal and the advancing line straggled to a stop. Zaro pointed urgently in the direction of the river. I saw something moving between the trees. It could have been an animal or it could have been a man — at this distance of several hundred yards in the fading light it was impossible to tell — but we had to investigate. I went over to Zaro and asked him what he thought he had seen. Zaro said, ‘It might be a man. Whatever it is, it acts as though it had seen us and is trying to hide.’ The o
thers crept up to us. ‘If it’s a man,’ said Makowski, ‘we shall have to hit him on the head and throw him in the river. We can’t risk anyone giving us away.’ We spread out again, Smith and Zaro on my left, Paluchowicz, Makowski, Marchinkovas and Kolemenos on my right. Crouching low we moved forward from bush to bush until we were able to see that the line of trees was about fifty yards from the river, its waters now clearly visible. About ten yards from the first of the belt of trees I stopped and listened. The others pulled up, too, and everyone peered ahead. Suddenly a figure which had been motionless behind a tree trunk threw itself forward and downward into a clump of bushes. In that flash of movement I saw trousers and heavy boots. I broke cover and ran forward, the others at my heels.

  The boots were rubber-soled, felt-topped and knee-length. They stuck ludicrously out from the bush as I threw myself on them and hauled outwards to bring the owner into view. The next instant I was asprawl with the boots in my hands. Kolemenos was breathing heavily down my neck, peering down at a ridiculously small pair of linen-swathed feet and slim ankles. And from beneath the bush came terrified, heartbroken sobbing. We looked at one another, still panting from our run, in sudden embarrassment. Someone whispered in awed tones, ‘It must be a woman.’

  Kolemenos bent down, shouldered aside the bush and gently lifted. We all crowded round. It was a girl — a slip of a girl, roundeyed with fright, her tears making clean rivulets through the grime of her face. A few moments ago we had been a bunch of desperate men who could contemplate killing to prevent discovery. Now we stood around, clumsily contrite, like a crowd of romping boys caught in mischief and seeking the words to repair some act of over-rough horseplay. Through her tears she stole a look at my face and cowered back. ‘Don’t be afraid of us,’ I said in Russian. She looked at me again and her eyes went from me to the other six solemn and anxious bearded faces. She went on crying and I cannot blame her; we must have looked the worst gang of desperadoes she had ever had the ill-luck to meet.

  ‘Please don’t cry, little girl,’ said Sergeant Paluchowicz.

  She was still very frightened. She was fighting hard to stop her sobbing. ‘We won’t hurt you,’ I tried to console her. ‘We all have sisters and sweethearts of our own.’ The others nodded agreement.

  Everything she wore seemed too big and bulky for her. Her thin shoulders were hunched in a long, wide, padded fufaika and her slim ankles emerged incongruously from a pair of heavy padded trousers. Like our own, both garments were of some sombre black heavy material. Beneath the jacket showed the upper half of a well-worn and dirty purple velvet dress, the skirt of which was tucked into the trousers. From two sleeves of a green woollen jumper or cardigan she had made herself a scarf which was wrapped about her neck. Her tear-brimming eyes were very blue. Wisps of chestnut hair strayed out from under a motheaten fur hood. She looked like a schoolgirl masquerading in the clothes of a grown man. And because she looked so helpless we stood around silently and waited for her to dry her tears and speak. We were tongue-tied.

  She lifted her hands to draw the jacket sleeves across her face and I saw she was holding a little crucifix. She dropped her hands, looked down at her feet and turned her eyes on me. She was standing all but barefoot in the snow — and I was still holding her boots. I bent down and helped her slip her feet back into them.

  She spoke then, in a quaint mixture of Polish and halting Russian. ‘I have lost my way to the kolhoz where I work. I am Polish and I was deported here to work.’ The look she gave us was apprehensive.

  Paluchowicz and Makowski pushed forward. I talked and they talked in a rush at the same time. In the gabble of explanation she finally understood we were telling her that we were Poles, too, that we were escaping prisoners, and that she had nothing to fear. Impulsively she flung herself into my arms and cried her relief and sudden happiness. Over and over again she repeated, ‘God is good to me.’ The other two Poles awkwardly patted her head and shoulders.

  It was an emotional scene. Too emotional and noisy for one cool head in the party. Smith had moved apart and had been keeping an anxious watch. In Russian he called out. ‘Break it up. Are you forgetting where we are? For God’s sake let’s get under cover.’

  The group quickly broke up. We moved off to find a hiding-place.

  12. Kristina Joins the Party

  HER NAME was Kristina Polanska. She was just seventeen. She had not eaten for two days and she was very, very hungry. We rummaged in our bags and handed her our scraps of food. She ate like a half-starved animal with absorbed concentration, now and again sniffling and rubbing her padded sleeve across her nose. She fascinated us. We squatted on our haunches and never took our eyes off her. Only Mister Smith sat back a little, watching her, too, but with a more detached air of appraisal. Then she stopped eating and told us her name.

  ‘I am not lost from the kolhoz,’ she volunteered. ‘I ran away. I have been running for many days.’ She paused. ‘And you are the first gentlemen I have met since I left my home.’ She put a lot of emphasis into the word gentlemen.

  ‘Where was your home, Kristina?’ I asked.

  ‘My father had a farm near Luck, in the Polish Ukraine,’ she said. ‘I last saw it in 1939. I have no home now.’

  Quietly the American interposed with a question about our immediate plans. It was getting dark, he pointed out, and he thought we should make some distance along the river bank northwards to a point which looked favourable for a crossing early the next day. He suggested it would be senseless to give ourselves another soaking that night. At least we could sleep dry.

  There was no argument. We walked for four or five miles along the tree-fringed river. I saw the girl several times looking at Smith. She did not speak to him. I think she sensed that in this calm and thoughtful man was the only likely opposition to her presence among us. We Poles talked to her. Smith said nothing.

  It was quite dark when we found a place to rest. We built a hide against a fallen log. We laid down our food sacks for her and she curled up among us, completely trustful, and slept. Ours was a more fitful rest. Throughout the dark hours we took sentry duty in turn, according to our practice. She slept on like a tired child, oblivious of the chill of the night. She still had not awakened when, in the first hint of day, Mister Smith touched me on the shoulder and beckoned me away from the group.

  He came to the point at once. ‘What are we going to do with this young woman, Slav?’ I had known it was coming and I did not know what to say. It might be a good thing, I said, to find out from her what were her plans. It was evading the question and I was well aware of it. Out of the tail of my eye I saw Makowski talking to Paluchowicz. They strolled over to us. On their heels came Kolemenos. A minute later the other two left the hide and joined us. ‘Very well,’ said the American, ‘we’ll make it a full conference.’ We talked, but we did not come to the point. Were we going to take the girl with us? That was the only question. The only result of our talk was that we would talk to Kristina and reach some decision afterwards.

  We woke her gently. She yawned and stretched. She sat up and looked at us all. She smiled in real happiness to see us. We grinned back through our beards and basked in that rare smile. Busily we fussed around to rake out some food and we all quietly breakfasted together as day began to break. Paluchowicz, clearing his throat embarrassedly, asked her then how she came to be where we found her and where she was heading.

  ‘I was trying to get to Irkutsk,’ she said, ‘because a man who gave me a lift on a farm lorry and was sorry for me told me that if I got to the big railway junction there I might steal a ride on a train going west. He dropped me on the road a few miles away and I was trying to find a way round the town.’

  Her glance rested on the American. He returned the look gravely. Her fingers fluttered to the strands of hair straying outside her cap, tucked them away in a gesture pathetically and engagingly feminine. ‘I think I should tell you about myself,’ she said. We nodded.

  It was a variation of a story we
all knew. The prison camps were filled with men who could tell of similar experiences. The location and the details might differ, but the horror and the leaden misery were common ingredients and stemmed from the same authorship.

  After the First World War Kristina Polanska’s father had been rewarded for his war services by a grant of land in the Ukraine under the reorganization of Central European territory. He had fought against the Bolsheviks, and General Pilsudski was thus able to give a practical expression of Polish gratitude. The girl was an only child. They were a hardworking couple, these parents, and they intended that Kristina should have every advantage their industry could provide. In 1939 she was attending high school in Luck and the Polanskas were well pleased with the progress she was making.

  Came September 1939. The Russians started moving in. Ahead of the Red Army ‘Liberators’ the news of their coming reached the Ukrainian farm workers. The well-organized Communist underground was ready. It needed only a few inflammatory speeches on the theme of the overthrow of foreign landowners and restoration of the land to the workers, and the Ukrainian peasants were transformed into killer mobs. The Polanskas knew their position was desperate. They knew the mob would come for them. They hid Kristina in a loft and waited. ‘Whatever happens, stay there until we come back for you,’ said her mother.

  She heard the arrival of the mob, the shouts of men, the sounds of destruction as hammers and axes were swung in a wrecking orgy among the equipment in the surrounding farm buildings. She thought she recognized the voices of men from the nearest village. Outside in the yard Polanska called by name to some of the men he knew. The appeal came through clearly to the terrified child in the loft. ‘Take away what you want, but don’t destroy our home and land.’ Silence for a minute or two after this. A growling murmur followed, increasing as the men bunched together and advanced towards the house and Polanska. Kristina heard nothing from her mother, but she was sure she was there beside her father. Someone began to harangue the men. The phrases were violent and venomous. She heard her father’s voice once more, but it was drowned in a sudden uproar. Her mother screamed once and then Kristina pressed her hands over her ears and shivered and moaned to herself.