Polish Spirit

by

Wladek Wojcik

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The story so far: Winter 1939 is setting in. Wladek has been captured by the Russians and shipped into the Ukraine, where he is held in a camp full of Polish POW's. Most of them are sent to work in a quarry, but Wladek and his friend Jurek are detailed to work in a nearby forge, where Wladek meets Nuria, the daughter of a Polish woman who had come to live in Moscow in the years before the Revolution. Although it is strictly forbidden, Nuria invites Wladek to meet her mother.....

Chapter 5

1

It was well into November by now. The days were short and bitterly cold, with deepening snow lying everywhere. The roads were treacherously slippery underfoot, and we had to take care not to come a cropper when walking about.

One afternoon, I dropped by to see Niura at her place of work. I told her that, if her earlier invitation still stood, I would be honoured to visit her mother the following afternoon. I reckoned that the safest time would be around four in the afternoon. That way, I ought to have plenty of time to walk to the hut, spend some time with her mother, and still get back to the forge before the guards turned up with our compatriots from the quarry, to march Jurek and me back to the canteen, and thence to the camp itself.

Niura was delighted and agreed to collect me from the forge the next afternoon. In the morning, I parcelled up a few of my precious sugar cubes and some biscuits. During the day, I was somewhat workshy, as I tried to keep my hands as clean as possible to appear reasonably respectable when I met Niura's mother.

On the dot of four, Niura arrived and we set out together across the snow. As we struggled along, she told me about her house. She explained that really it was just a mud hut, with one room serving as bedroom, living room and kitchen combined. 'You see, we must not be allowed my privileges. This is because of our former well-being. Thanks to that, we stand no chance of ever living anywhere more comfortable than we've got. Besides, we're not party members, and in any event, I don't think the party would have us. To be frank, the way they see things, we're regarded as enemies of the working class, although what my mother and I could ever do to harm the working class is beyond me.'

Pointing to a strange, humped object protruding out of the snow, she said, 'We're here,' and, a few moments later, we were knocking at the door. It was opened by a strikingly elegant lady of middle age with greying hair.

Niura said, 'This is Wladek whom I've spoken about so often.' Her mother graciously extended her hand to me in greeting, and I gently kissed it, saying, in Polish, 'how do you do?' She invited me in, and, indicating a stool by the table, bade me sit down.

By now, it was getting dark and Niura lit the large oil lamp which stood on the table beside the inevitable samovar. I was struck by the smell of onions fried in bacon fat which filled the room. Following my nose, I glanced over at the primitive stove and was transfixed by some tasty looking crispy pies sizzling away in the frying pan.

In the soft glow of the oil lamp, I could make out the furnishings of the room. it was really quite large, but, as Niura said, it had to provide for all of their activities. I could see only one bed, so it appeared that mother and daughter slept together. In the middle of the room stood a big solid oak table alongside which I sat on one of four simple stools. The table was old enough to remember the Tsar, but, apart from the stools, there was nowhere else to sit in the room.

Over in one corner was a wash bowl, with a large jug of water standing inside it. Nearby, on the stone floor, a large bucket was filled to the brim with water, which suggested that the house did not enjoy the luxury of running water. Next to the wall was a large wooden box, its lid secured with a sturdy padlock. The room's most surprising feature, however, was a beautiful grand piano. It stood below a small window and had numerous scores scattered across its top.

That piano riveted my attention. it was the last thing I'd have expected to find in a mud hut in the middle of nowhere. Besides, it was a magnificent instrument, old, of beautiful dark wood, spotlessly clean, and painstakingly, lovingly polished. I found myself wondering which of them played it, and what effect its voice might have in so humble a dwelling out here on the icy steppe.

The cooking facilities, whilst simple, were effective. They had a brick built stove, on top of which was a metal hot plate, in which two holes had been cut. Each of these holes was fitted with a set of three interlocking concentric rings, and, by adding or removing these rings it was possible to vary the direct access of the flame to the pan, and thereby effect some elementary control over the cooking process.

From the end of the stove, a fifteen centimetre-wide metal flue disappeared out through the roof. For fuel they were using old tree stumps, and grubbed-out pine roots left over from logging in the forest. These were rich with oil and, when dry, burnt like a torch.

I noticed that the door had been fitted with three heavy duty locks. Apparently in this land where there was ostensibly common ownership of the means of production, there were those who extended the idea of common ownership to perverse lengths. I learned that this kind of hut was called a ziemlanka, and that it was built to withstand whatever weather the elements chose to throw at it. The toilet, it seemed, was round the back, and it too was kept padlocked to ensure it was for their use only.

Inside, around that heavy, old table, Niura's mother and I settled down to a lively discussion in Polish. We talked about Poland itself, about the outbreak of war, and the sorry tale of how I came to end up in a Soviet POW camp.

I noted that Niura's mother spoke excellent Polish, albeit with a slight accent. Whilst Niura herself spoke little of the language, she seemed to understand nearly everything that was said. For instance, when her mother asked her in Polish to serve the meal, a big pan of pierozki materialised on the table in next to no time, and a small metal plate was put in front of each of us.

Her mother stood up and crossed the room to the padlocked wooden chest. After much fiddling with keys, and to my immense surprise, she proudly withdrew a large bottle of vodka. Calling me over to the box, she invited me to look within. As I watched, she moved aside a pile of linen, and I was amazed to see crucifixes, chalices, and all the trappings you would find in a Catholic church. 'Don't believe them,' she said darkly, when they tell you that God is dead in the Soviet Unon.'

She handed me the bottle and, with an encouraging smile on her face, invited me to open it.

It was such a seemingly simple but nevertheless daunting task. I was sitting there with the bottle in my hand, and little idea of what to do with it. In those days, vodka bottles were corked, just like wine bottles are today. There was no cork-screw in sight, and in any case it was a matter of pride that real men made do without them. I had often seen experienced drinking men open bottles of vodka back home. They applied a solitary strong slap to the bottom of the bottle, sufficient to shift the cork just enough that it could be gripped and drawn. Nothing ventured, I thought, and whacked the bottle with my open palm. Nothing gained either I noted, as the cork remained unmoved and impervious to my anxious ministrations. Increasingly embarrassed, I persevered. After my fourth or fifth attempt, the cork had slackened a little and I was able at last, to grasp it.

I was frankly disconcerted at having been forced to reveal how green I was in these manly pursuits. Apart from the mental anguish thereby occasioned, the palm of my hand ached from slapping the bottom of the unco-operative bottle.

Despite my momentary discomfiture, the three of us snugly enjoyed what proved to be a most pleasant and memorable evening. After a few drinks, downed in one in the Russian manner, and after stuffing ourselves with those delicious pierozki straight from the pan, the three of us started to see the world in somewhat rosier, altogether more congenial colours.

Time was passing, a fact to which I was impervious.

2

Niura's mother sighed deeply, and began to tell me the remarkable story of her life. Outside events had rudely impinged upon it and turned her onto unmapped paths and byways she would never, by herself, have dreamed of exploring. Much less would she have chosen to.

Her parents had been wealthy Polish landowners, and at the age of 18, in 1908, she had left the country and gone to St Petersburg to study literature and music.

Whilst there, she stayed with her aunt, who was married to a high-ranking officer in the Tsar's army.

At that time, St Petersburg had everything to offer a pretty young student. There were frequent parties, opulent balls, outings to the opera and ballet, boxes at the theatre. The high life beckoned, and her aunt made it her business to ensure that her niece was properly launched into this new, exciting and enticing world, with its promises of enjoyment, privilege, luxury and happiness. She met and mingled with the cream of society, and was as taken with them as they seemed charmed by her.

After she had been four years in the city, she met a young man who was much more than merely charmed. They fell deeply in love and were soon married. Her husband, Ivan, was a handsome, successful young merchant of Greek ancestry. He was an outgoing, clever, kindly man, and the first few years of their marriage were blissfully happy, clouded only by the unexplained death of their first child shortly after his birth in 1914. There was otherwise no hint of the disaster which lay ahead of them.

They lived in Odessa where they kept open house to a wide and varied circle of friends. She played her beloved piano, and wrote poems and romances which Ivan would insist she read out to their guests during parties. Ivan was an accomplished cellist, and people frequently remarked on the depth of feeling he was able to convey through his instrument. His love, devotion and happiness suffused his playing and touched the hearts of his listeners. He was one of those men who was agreeable and friendly to everyone irrespective of rank or station, always joking or spinning his friends some fantastic yarn with so straight a face that they'd be unable to tell if he was being serious or seriously having them on. Either way, it was certain that life with him would be filled with an abundance of laughter and merriment.

But the good luck was due to expire, and the laughter scheduled to stop.

Came the year 1917, and the so called glorious October revolution ensured that society was thoroughly mixed from top to bottom.

Expropriate the expropriators was the cry, which meant that in no time the young couple were relieved of their possessions and even forced to leave the home which had once known so much joy. There was no sympathy or consideration for the fact that, while all this was going on, the frightened young woman was carrying her second child.

Ivan was a frequent, albeit unwilling, visitor to the local police station and was forced to endure many nights of interrogation. He was systematically insulted and degraded by these morally upright guardians and representatives of the people, who were just beginning to feel their newly-usurped strength.

Desperate to regain some peace and security, they decided to flee Odessa for what they prayed would be the safety of Krivoy Rog, hoping to be left alone to start a new, but very different, life. How cruelly mistaken they were. No sooner had they bought the mud hut in which we were sitting, than the unsolicited invitations to visit the police station started afresh.

In the course of vigorous interogation, Ivan was repeatedly told that his kind were considered extremely undesirable in the workers' and peasants' state. Indeed, so vigorous did the discussion become, that he would often eventually return home, not merely downhearted, but also badly bruised.

Her voice thick with emotion, she recalled the last time he was hauled away. The next day he failed to reappear as usual. Distraught, she went to the police station, and demanded to know what was happening to her husband. The duty officer was very apologetic and said that he was sorry, but his information was that her husband had left the police station the night before. Regretfully there was nothing more he could do. Whether they had indeed let him go or not is impossible to say, but the fact remains that she neither saw nor heard from her husband ever again.

Now she had to face up to real hardship. There was theoretically full employment in the Soviet Union. Consequently, with no one unemployed, there was no infrastructure to assist the jobless and destitute with the result that there was neither individual nor institution to which she could turn for assistance.

She took whatever work she could get to try and provide for herself and her young child, Niura. She endured long hard years as a kitchen hand, washing up, serving meals in a canteen, and scrubbing countless floors. Sometimes though, during the evenings, she would give piano lessons.

With Niura now in full-time employment, her mother had been able to retire from catering, and now spent much more of her time teaching the piano to both children and adults alike. Even so, their lives were far from easy, and they despaired of ever seeing any real improvement. For now, they could at least feel that they weren't substantially worse off than everybody else.

Another pierozki and another glass of vodka, and the time continued to pass by most pleasantly. Niura lit the samovar. Waiting for the tea, we chatted easily on about this and that. Thus I learned that Niura had a boyfriend who was away studying mechanical engineering in Moscow. I told them about my family back in Warsaw, and responded to Niura's probing by admitting that, yes, I had leased out my heart some time ago, and, whilst I wasn't receiving any rent at present, nevertheless I had absolutely no intention of changing the leaseholder. The pair of them started laughing and hoped I'd receive my arrears soon.

The water started boiling furiously in the samovar, and Niura soon had the tea made. Naturally, it was served the traditional Russian way, strong and black. When they apologetically said that they had no sugar, I suddenly remembered my little parcel which had stood unattended upon the table. I unwrapped it and pushed the sugar and biscuits over to my delighted hosts. I noticed that neither of them dropped the sugar cubes into the tea, Instead they held the cubes between their fingers and sucked swiftly at the sugar immediately after every mouthful of tea. When I enquired why they were doing this, they explained that it was a matter of simple economy; by sucking the sugar they were able to make each cube last for up to four cups of tea instead of just one.

It was getting late. I was past caring as my eyes slowly focused on my watch, to discover that it was already midnight. With some elaborate difficulty, I got up, thanked both of my hostesses for a most delightful evening and failed to open the door, being temporarily defeated by the vicissitudes of the three locks. Eventually, with assistance from both mother and daughter, I emerged from the hut into the icy silence of the Ukrainian midnight.

It was snowing and all I could see was white. Niura confidently took me directly to the nearest railway line, pointed me along it and said, 'Follow that for about an hour and you'll be back in your barracks.' It was cold as she kissed me goodnight and turned, quickly disappearing into the snow.

The Author - Warsaw, 1937

As I lurched down the track toward the camp, the only sound in the world was from fresh snow crunching under my boots. It was as if I was the only soul left alive, The poignancy of that thought made me shiver more than the cold, so I tried to concentrate on what I was doing and walk straighter and faster.

Just as I  thought I could make out the huddle of buildings, a staccato voice rang out high above me: 'Halt! Who's there?'

Looking up, I saw a vigilant guardian angel perched atop a machine gun tower. I mumbled somewhat incoherently that I was a POW and wanted to get back inside, only to be told to fuck off because there was no one missing from the camp, and everybody was already snug at home. I loudly protested that I did indeed belong there, and was still muttering about this outrage when the guardroom door opened and two irate guards headed my way. Fortunately they soon recognised me as one of the camp's accredited Stakhanovites and I was hauled straight into their office.

It was extremely cosy in the guardroom fug. Within moments, I proved beyond doubt that significant amounts of vodka and sudden warmth do not work too well together. I, who had just, with some reasonable competence, plodded home through the featureless snow, was suddenly knocked sideways into a legless drunk. I passed out, and remember nothing more until the next morning, when I woke up in my own bed. I was fully dressed, except for my shoes, which someone had thoughtfully removed from my feet and laid on the floor alongside me.

3

it goes without saying that Polish vodka is excellent, especially that first rate Kosher vodka which, though almost unknown outside Poland is cherished throughout the country and nowadays often reserved for special celebrations such as weddings. Indeed you know you've really been hitting it with a vengeance if ever you end up with a hangover, so pure and well made is the spirit. Welcome though it had been the night before, the rough Russian vodka was taking its sadistic revenge when the inconsiderate everyday noises of my barrackmates, themselves reluctantly preparing for another day's forced labour, savagely tore through my somewhat ragged consciousness.

In almost any other circumstances, I would have pulled the blanket over my head, groaned inwardly, and prayed for the return of soothing sleep. But this was not the after effect of ill-advised youthful excess at a Warsaw party, to be slept off in the quiet of a late Sunday morning, with just the familiar sounds and smells of my family's comfortable flat to provide a background against which to swear 'Never again.' This was in every way a more alienating experience. I gradually realised that instead of the amused yet sympathetic enquiries of my sisters, I was much more likely to have to face the somewhat less considerate solicitations of the NKVD. They might well express an interest in how I came to appear out of the snow at one in the morning, to put it euphemistically, in no fit state to drive.

Suddenly, there was an announcement. Instead of our usual work, we were all being detailed to clear snow from the railway tracks, Well, the lads thought, anything for a change.

A Soviet railway line in winter

After breakfast, itself a difficult time for me, we dragged ourselves out until we drew near the forge. The-column halted and we were issued with heavy wooden shovels, while the area boss came over and pointed out to the guards where he wanted us to start work.

Seeing Jurek and me leaning on our newly-issued shovels, he told us to get along into the forge; he had other work in mind for us. We were neither sorry nor slow to comply with his instruction.

A little later, a snow plough steamed into view down the line. The boss stuck his head round the door of the forge, where I had been even less than usually productive for a 107%-of-norm worker, and shouted to us to get up into the cab and give the driver a hand during the day.

It looked as though the patron saint of hangovers might be smiling down on me after all. Nothing was asked of me except that I sit alongside the driver looking out at the endless, featureless, white, unbroken snowscape. Most of the time, I was thankful to doze off when either he didn't feet like chatting or his attention was otherwise engaged in the ploughing of snow.

It was already evening when we got back to camp. By this time, I was feeling sufficiently restored and aware of the enormity of my crime to be quaking at the thought of the expected summons to the NKVD office.

To tell the truth, I was fearful not merely for myself, but also for Niura and her mother. They had suffered so much already, and I was sickened to think that our common tormentors might well use their hospitality towards me as an excuse for further oppression. What punishment do you draw, I wondered, for fraternising with a prisoner of the Soviet Union? I chose not to speculate too deeply, and resolved to try and say nothing to implicate these good women. However, I had reason not to doubt the efficacy of the NKVD's techniques for eliciting information. In short, I was afraid.

Curiously, I was not jerked aside and subjected to special treatment as a result of my outing. I speculated that it was because drunks were treated with some strange, perverted respect in the Soviet Union. Perhaps it was some legacy of the old idea of the holy fool that meant that they could, possibly even literally, get away with murder. More likely, given the amount they all seemed to put away themselves, they thought that my getting legless was evidence of the success of their attempted social re-engineering, and consequently, taking account of my Stakhanovite status, I was thought to be well my way to being Sovietised.

The Author again - Bolton, England,  1944

It is only recently that the mundane, bureaucratic truth eventually dawned on me.

When I turned up in the snow, the guard in the watchtower had made it unequivocally clear to me that they had quite enough prisoners for one night, thank you.

Whilst I was off enjoying myself, my compatriots would have been counted and re-counted several times, each time by several guards. No one ever noticed that they were x-1, and raised the alarm.

When I swanned along in the early hours, it was to a routine, quiet camp. It was not a camp on alert because one of its inmates had made a break for it. To have created a song and dance after I returned would have drawn not merely me but also the bored inefficiency of the guards to the angry attention of the Authorities. Given the summary notions of justice that prevailed in the workers' paradise, it is debatable who would have ended up having the hotter time of it.

Instead it was in everyone's interests, and saved a lot of time-consuming tedious paper work, to take his boots off, pour him in his bunk, and hope to goodness he keeps his bloody mouth shut about it in the morning.

Text copyright Wladyslaw Wojcik 1996

NB: Two of the author's children are lawyers.................!!!!

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