3.
Deportation to the USSR
Keep a green tree in your
heart
And perhaps a singing bird will come.
Chinese Proverb
The 1940 winter was extremely severe, with
temperatures exceeding 45 C on many occasions during
January and February. There were frequent snow drifts In
the garden. Around the house and on the streets,
footpaths needed to be cleared regularly.
As spring approached, the icy cold winds from Siberia
still reminded us that the winter would continue. In
April snow was still abundant and bare tree branches were
heavily laden with glittering, white powder. It was a
long-drawn-out winter and we continued to enjoy our
wooden sledges and friendly snowball fights with our
school friends.
***
On 12th April 1940 I had been to school as usual and
later Alek and I had played in the snow with other
children. We had made a huge snowman from three enormous
snowballs. Father's old straw hat and a scarf were added
to give him a lifelike appearance. Pieces of black coal
were used to create eyes and buttons down the front of
the Snowman's torso. We used a carrot for a nose and two
pieces of beetroot for his mouth. Someone brought a pipe,
which we carefully placed between his red lips. A small,
strawbroom perched In his folded arms provided the
finishing touch to our creation. We went to bed early,
after a busy day. Mother was away in the hospital on
afternoon duty, which extended from 3.30 p.m. to 11.30
p.m. It was after midnight when she arrived home. By that
time we were fast asleep, firmly tucked into our beds by
our tenant Dr. Pancerzynska.
***
Well after midnight we were woken up with a loud banging
on the front door. A deep-voiced Russian command was
heard in the stillness of the night — 'Open the
door' ('Odkroytye dvyeree'). This was repeated a few
times and the banging became louder, before Mother
responded to the call. We followed in our pyjamas.
As the door opened we were surrounded by four Russian
soldiers with guns with bayonets, all pointing towards
us. Suddenly we were fully awake. In terror we clung to
Mother's dressing gown. They inquired If my mother had
arms and ammunition in the apartment. She replied
resolutely that we had nothing, but their spokesman, a
sergeant, informed her they would search our apartment.
We were still frightened, but Mother was confident. She
spoke fluent Russian and knew that the search would be
fruitless. She indeed, had no concealed arms at our home.
After a thorough investigation which revealed nothing, we
were informed that we were to be resettled in the USSR.
We were to dress warmly and pack all our winter clothes
as we would certainly need them.
In a state of shock my mother asked how long we had. The
utter disbelief showed on her pale, startled face when
she was curtly told we had two hours.
There was no time to waste. We dressed hastily in our
winter clothes, complete with padded knee-high boots,
scarves, gloves, fur hats, a padded overcoat with a
large, fur collar and a muff to warm our hands. Mother
started packing a large cane trunk full of winter
woollies, including father's clothes, hoping we might be
reunited in the USSR. She took her own and father's
Polish Passport, his doctoral degree, the four precious
postcards from him In Starobielsk camp, other Important
documents and family photographs. She packed them all
into a small suitcase, which she was to guard constantly
during our long journey.
I packed my favourite doll named Kasia (Kate) and her
numerous clothes made by my maternal grandmother. This
was my most prized possession. I carefully placed my
schoolbooks, a writing pad and a pencil case in my
schoolbag. It did not occur to me that Polish books would
not be used in Russian schools. The commotion woke our
tenants. Dr. Pancerzynska and her daughters Zosia and
Maria who cried and hugged us. These were truly traumatic
moments. We could not be reconciled to leaving our home
and our beloved country Poland for a foreign, unknown
destination. That world was beyond our comprehension. We
could not conceive of a life in the USSR.
Our captors kept our destination a secret. We did not
know what was to become of us. This in itself was
terrifying. We felt like flowers suddenly plucked from a
home garden, broken off from the root structure which had
nourished and sustained them so long. We were informed
that we would be eligible for some monetary compensation
for our household contents left behind in Poland and we
had noticed that several attractive Items were claimed by
our captors. It was clear to us that we were under house
arrest and no longer had control over our own destinies.
Just before 3.00 a.m. when we were permitted a snack and
a warm chocolate drink, there was another knock on the
front door. This announced the arrival of a truck in our
driveway. We were ordered to leave our home forthwith.
Quickly we bade our farewells to our tearful friends.
Mother sobbed too. Alek and I could not fully absorb the
seriousness of our circumstances, but the atmosphere of
fear and sadness did not escape us. We felt numb, too
terrified to respond emotionally, only reassured that
Mother was going with us.
Outside we saw three other families sitting on the truck,
huddled together for warmth In the centre and partly
insulated by their luggage surrounding them. Somehow we
managed to fit in with our possessions. We waved a final
good-bye to the friends we were never to meet again.
Outside the temperature was still below zero. This most
severe of winters seemed endless. Grodno's streets were
deserted. Most city dwellers slept peacefully, unaware of
the human drama unfolding in their midst.
The truck stopped on the outskirts of the railway
station. From there, under armed escort, we carried our
own luggage. Soldiers helped with our large, cane trunk.
It was easily the largest piece of baggage of our group.
A long goods train was standing nearby. Several trucks
were unloading people and their luggage. Under armed
supervision we were led to one of the windowless
carriages towards the rear of the train. Numerous,
frightened faces peered from the wagons' open doors,
while the Soviet guards watched. The wagons stank of
animal excreta and there were no open windows to provide
ventilation. We wondered what it would be like when the
door was closed. These conditions were perhaps
satisfactory for transporting cattle or pigs to the
slaughterhouse, but such carriages were not designed for
human passengers.
On closer surveillance of the dim carriage Interior we
could discern two wide wooden bunks on opposite sides.
Several families were already occupying the available
space. Everywhere women and children sat dressed In
outdoor, winter clothes, covered with woolen blankets.
Some had pillows or cushions to support their backs.
There was no room to lie down. We managed to squeeze into
one corner of a lower bunk.
In the centre of the wagon a screen surrounded an opening
in the wooden floor which was to serve more than 30
people as a toilet. There was no heating or light. Many
people were crying. Two men were part of our group. One,
an elderly man had only one leg, and the other was an
18-year-old, the eldest of five children. His name was
Edek (Ed). Later we learned that bone cancer had caused
the older man's loss of limb. He and his wife were the
parents of the train's engine driver. This unfortunate
son had the sickening task of deporting his own parents
to the USSR. A young baby was crying. Her mother had been
abducted from a maternity ward with her six-day-old
daughter. This caused the young woman Intense distress.
As we were becoming accustomed to our quarters, the door
was bolted, chained and locked, A whistle soon announced
our departure from Grodno. We felt entombed in the pitch
darkness, packed like sardines in a tin.
A couple of women fainted. Others tried to revive them
and to provide support. Then people began to pray aloud.
This was followed by the singing of hymns and patriotic
Polish songs to ease tension. We were completely
oblivious to the passing scenery as the train sped along.
With the approaching dawn, a few beams of light
penetrated through the cracks in the door. Our eyes had
become accustomed to darkness. Now we were able to see
much more. People began to talk to each other, no longer
total strangers In the dark. Our tragic fate had already
united us into one large family.
After several more hours the train halted. A Soviet
soldier unbolted the door. Under constant guard we were
allowed to stretch our legs. There was no possibility of
an escape. We were warned that we would be shot on the
spot in any such attempt. Before resumption of our long
journey every wagon received a bucket of hot tea. A
cupful warmed us a little, before we were again confined
to the dark, crowded interior. How we wished there was at
least one small window so we could determine our
destination! Edek possessed a sturdy pen knife. He
proceeded to chip away at the exterior, side wall above
the upper bunk, trying to create a small opening, a
window to the world.
We were now very hungry. Some shared food they had
brought with them. We had none. Someone offered us a
plain biscuit each. It tasted delicious. More fellow
travelers introduced themselves and related details of
their family backgrounds. Their friendliness helped. We
slept much of the time to make up for the sleepless night
of our sudden departure. As daylight continued to fade
through the cracks of the door we realised that evening
was approaching. Finally the train stopped. The door
opened and we were allowed outside into the frosty air.
Again each carriage was guarded. We could not venture
further than a few metres. Our train had arrived at a
border town of eastern Poland. We knew this was the last
time we would stand on Polish soil. Several women became
very emotional digging the snow away to obtain a small
piece of Polish earth, which they then carefully placed
in a small jar or wrapped up in a handkerchief — a
sentimentally valuable souvenir to treasure during exile.
Meanwhile, two volunteers were called for from each
carriage to fetch our evening nourishment. This consisted
of a bucket of thick soup, another filled with porridge
and a third with hot tea. We were soon eating ravenously
In the confines of our cramped quarters and with our
pressing hunger satisfied, we felt warmer .and more
comfortable. Our spirits were temporarily lifted. We
recited the Lord's Prayer in unison and cast our day's
burdens upon the Lord God In a hymn of praise, entitled
'All our daily tasks bless oh Lord'. Edek, aided by a
torch, continued to chip away at the wooden wall with his
penknife, before he too grew weary and slept like most of
us. From then on we looked forward only to our two daily
nourishment of exactly the same consistency and to being
able to stretch our limbs a couple of times each day.
Before long Edek succeeded in creating a tiny window to
the outside world. Children took turns to look through
this opening and to sample the fresh, cool air, so
different from the stuffy atmosphere within. We now
realised that we were bound northeastwards towards the
still very distant Ural Mountains.
The tiny baby girl grew weaker as her young mother, on
such meagre rations herself, had no milk for the newborn
infant. A few days after being baptised with water, she
died peacefully. Her mother was inconsolable. Everyone
tried to comfort her in her extreme grief. We prayed and
sang together. Finally, she reluctantly handed over the
babe's dead body to our guard. No one knew where she was
buried. Our lives were worthless to our captors. Some of
our group played cards and some had a game of chess. A
couple of children had snakes and ladders, a game we
enjoyed. Personal tales about life In Poland also
provided interest and entertainment as time dragged
slowly on.
After about 10 days we had to change trains. Our first
train could proceed no further as the railway track was
now narrower. The train driver farewelled his elderly
parents as we all disembarked. We learned from him that
our destination was still a long way off. We were to
follow the trans-Siberian route of previous Polish exiles
deported in the reigns of Russian Tsars, most of whom
perished in that inhospitable terrain.
The second train was also a goods carrier, equipped In
much the same way. However, these carriages contained two
tiny barred windows, close to the roof structure. There
was no glass to exclude the draft and cold air, but at
least more light penetrated the train interior. Now we
could see the passing landscape and read the names of
railway stations. This was a bonus.
Each day began and ended with communal prayers and
singing which sustained us throughout our long journey.
The snow had melted. Each time we breathed in the fresh
air In front of our stationary train we knew more
assuredly that spring was here to stay. It was usually
sunny and warm during the day, though the nights were
cold necessitating our huddling together for warmth. The
monotony of the almost flat landscape of the great
Russian plain was at last relieved as we approached the
gentle foothills of the Urals. These mountain ranges were
rugged and their summits still had a snow cover, some of
which remained permanently. We enjoyed the now changing
landscape, at the same time realising that Europe had
ended and Asia begun. We were now a very long way from
Poland, in another part of the globe.
By now we were accustomed to the daily routine, but after
six weeks in this confined space and with so few changes
of clothes we felt extremely dirty and uncomfortable
having been deprived for so long of proper washing
facilities, Our clothes were filthy and our hair matted.
Deprived of essential cleanliness human dignity ebbed. We
all desperately desired to be released from our prison,
dreaming of fresh, cool water to wash in. We wondered how
much longer our journey would last. We made new friends
among our group, but the suspense and the uncertainty of
our fate weighed heavily on us all.
We continued to travel over the flat, seemingly endless
terrain of the steppes, one of the world's greatest grain
producing areas. There were few signs of habitation. Was
it our destiny to boost this scant, remote population of
mixed ethnic origins? At every railway station there were
more and more Asians among the European Russians.
We were accustomed to long Intervals between railway
stations. Eventually the train would stop and with
relentless predictability move on again. Finally the
train stopped at yet another small railway station and we
observed a crowd milling around. Then the doors opened
one by one. People disembarked with their luggage. We
could scarcely believe It. This time there would be no
more porridge, hot soup and tea to distribute. We had
arrived at our destination of Northern Kazakhstan at the
beginning of June.
We followed our fellow travelers as each family gathered
their belongings. Trucks began to arrive, first to carry
people from the front wagons. We sat on top of our large
cane trunk awaiting our turn. We were glad to finally be
in the open air, with plenty of space around us. The sun
was shining brightly. Summer was upon us now. After weeks
of twilight Inside the goods train, this bright sunshine
was too strong for our eyes. We tried to shade them with
our hands and dared not to look upwards into the clear
blue sky. Our bodies ached from head to toe from
crouching for such a long time.
Trucks came and departed full of passengers but as our
carriage was towards the rear of the long train, we
seemed to wait an eternity before our turn came to leave
this tiny station. At long last our names were read out,
along with a dozen other families. In two large trucks we
were soon bound for our final destination In Northern
Kazakhstan, leaving behind the small, wooden building
near an old platform — our last railway station.
Beyond was a flat, desolate, treeless steppe, a new world
without end. We traveled over narrow, dusty roads,
occasionally passing a cluster of buildings, the small
villages of collective farms, the Russian Kolhos.
After midday we finally arrived at our ultimate
destination, a similar rural settlement, surrounded by a
large, flat expanse of arable land. We were destined to
begin our life in the USSR in the Akmolinsk region, in
the tiny collective farm settlement called Kaztsic. The
two trucks pulled up side by side next to a large wooden
barn to discharge their human cargo. Several local
Kazakhs stared at the curious sight of the tired, grubby
strangers, who were to live in their midst. Resignation
was deeply etched into all our expressions like the other
Polish families from our transport, distributed
throughout various collective farms of Northern
Kazakhstan, facing the unknown.
The state of Kazakhstan is larger than all the
present-day EC countries together. Historically, it was
the home of nomadic Kazakh horsemen who grazed huge herds
on vast pastures before the Communist Revolution. Since
then they had adjusted from the nomadic existence of
living in portable felt tents (yurts), to life on
collective farms and In urban areas. We were destined to
share our lives with these Asians.
When we arrived In June 1940, an area larger than Britain
of the desolate, gray virgin steppe of Kazakhstan had
been ploughed up to supply scarce cereals. The towns,
roads and railways centred on Akmolinsk (now renamed
Tselinograd). The Polish deportees from our train were
assigned to live and work In this developing agricultural
region.
***
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