Ave Beria morituri te salutant[i]

“Witaj, Beria,ci ktŏrzy są na śmierč skazani, pozdrawiają cię.”

„Hail, Beria, those who are about to die, salute you”

Late autumn, 1939.

       The harvest was completed on a large estate in Poland. I began to plan the autumn plowing and seeding. The job had to be done quickly, and there were nearly 11,000 acres to cultivate and seed. I had a very abled man employed as manager of the whole estate. Mr. Donald Ramyon, adept of Vienna Agricultural Collage and Edinburgh in Scotland. One part of my estate was situated near the big River Dniester. It was dedicated to a mixed form of farming, but our family were lovers of horses, and our breed of pure blood Arabians was dated as far as back a.s. 1599 year. Our stallions and mares had a very easy market in the whole of Europe and always at top prices. I will have to add that I was born in the house I am writing about, which was situated 50 miles from the Soviet frontier found on the other side of River Dniester.

      Shortly after the harvest a nasty war rumor began to drum in my ears, a war with Germany – we Poles were confident – we Poles will defend our country to the last man.  Of course, we have nothing to fear from Soviet Russia – we signed a pact of non-aggression, Soviets will respect the pact, maybe. God help us!

       Late in August after a very trying day on horse back, I relaxed in my study. At nearly ten o’clock at night, I suddenly heard bats storm the lead encased windows. This never happen before. I thought nothing of it, but after a while I rang the bell for our old butler Jan. He was 70 years of age and out of these 51 years with our family. He could never recall anything like that. We were perplexed.

       The same night through a ford in a river, began to come vehicles with wounded Polish soldiers. I was anxious for news and willing to help the wounded. Soon my whole home was full of wounded soldiers, but not one doctor. The next day about midnight I began to hear very heavy traffic on the other side of the river, a sound that only very heavy armour could produce. The battle line was too far to be heard. What could it be? I was nearly ready for bed, but after a while I changed into my riding clothes and asked for a horse named “Hetman” to be saddled. I know Hetman would not disappoint me, his back was iron-like, his legs of steel. Our centuries custom was to herd all yearlings, drive them to the river when it was swollen and force them to swim across. They always made the dangerous swim as all of them were good horses, the kind of horses needed for the cavalry in a specifically difficult country. Hetman was nervous, prancing, because of the unusual time of being saddled. A strong dry storm developed, and it was pitch dark, but Hetman knew his way.

       I could see only when the flash of the lightning gleamed. All a sudden my horse began to back up. I could not see a thing, then a terrific thunder and again lightning, revealing to me a machine gun, more or less 200 yards away. Eventually I succeed in pushing my horse close enough and to my astonished eyes I see the front part of a farm wagon, two wheels and a broken shaft, just like a heavy machine gun – in a pitch-dark night. I press my horse further, being very tense, feeling uneasy, and no wonder. A little further I find the back part of the farm cart and round it nine bodies of young soldiers, horribly mutilated. Then I knew at once what happened, and that I must go to nearest town to get information and to see my parents on another estate. The town was only nine miles away and my first contact was with our police commissioner. His news to me was: That Soviet Russia entered Poland four hours ago and that Soviet Russia is going to help Poland with her struggle against Germany. My first thought was – God help Poland. Before parting with the police commissioner, his wife kindly offered me cup of tea. I notice that the man was extremely nervous – we knew Russia well. His daughter of eleven leaned on her father’s shoulder. I sipped my tea, when all a sudden I heard a shot. The child began to scream and fell down wounded in her right leg by her father’s gun. Her father being a police commissioner wanted to slip his gun in his pocket so his wife could not see it ….  He knew what to expect when they got him, he wanted to prevent it. But he did not. After a reasonable while, shocked as I was, I took my leave and departed.

I rode to my parents’ home, explained them the grave situation and urged to leave immediately for Romania – the frontier of Romania was not far. My mother and father declined the suggestion because of patriotic reasons.

That memorable night nobody slept. I ordered to change my horse for an imported Irish hunter which I knew would do the impossible if needed. Ten o’clock next morning I rode again to the police station for more news, and the news was there. The Russians had crossed the river, we expected them any minute and so it was almost immediate – I hear heavy armor on the highway. The police commissioner suggested that I watch the entry of Soviets in front of the Police station. I willingly agreed, but at just that very second my plenipotentiary, Mr. Donald Ramyon rode by and seeing me, he asked whether I have some cigarettes with me, I sed “yes” and as in trance I crossed the street handing him a handful of smokes. At the same moment a light carrier approached the police station, apparently from nowhere. Behind the machine gun carrier bends a Soviet officer with a gun in his hand. I heard the commend “Fire! Fire!”

The police commissioner and his staff were standing on a verandah framed by the leaves of vine.  The flying bullets cut the vine leaves to ribbons. I cannot grasp what has happened until I see the whole macabre tragedy. The machine gun spouts its bullets, killing the police commissioner and his eleven – man crew. I see the bodies wriggle in convolution, I see the Soviet officer discharge his gun on the head of every policeman, but I cannot move.  I feel my legs, knee deep in dirt. The whole town is in panic; I go into hiding. I move only at night, my home is devastated, and my precious horses are all taken for the soviet cavalry. I see my dairy cows hungry and unattended and eventually slaughtered for the hungry Soviet army. I look for a route to escape to join the Polish Army in France – the whole Polish frontier is closed by specially trained Soviet police – the “Green Guards”, they have ferocious German shepherd dogs. I moved to another town, very hungry and without money to buy food.

In one of the frequent big arrests, I was the victim too. My gehenna (hell) began from that time. Fourteen of us were imprisoned in a school’s closet. The closet was no bigger than forty feet square feet. It holds prisoners for ten or more hours. Next morning the guards opened the closet door, and fourteen unconscious men fell out like fourteen logs. We were dragged to the investigator’s room. Behind a school desk sat a young captain – a woman – behind us two guards with withdrawn bayonets. The captain, smiling, asked us – did we have good night? Nobody answers. I see her sitting in a deep chair, her right hand moves and to my horror I see a gun in her hand. With a malicious grin on her face she fires into us. Five men fall to the floor. I was spared and waited to be shot down next, but no …. she was too drunk to move again. We were carried out to a large school room. Before dark more men were arrested. The guards kept filling our room to the point where we become alarmed.  It was a normal school room where fifteen men for could comfortably have been housed, and we now numbered seventy-five. The windows were boarded up and we began to feel lack of air. Older men began to faint, our shouts for help brought no response. Next morning two men died. Around ten o’clock, two guards brought us breakfast – unbelievable as it was – a barrel of rotten herrings and a big kettle of scalding water – no mugs – no room to move. The men from the back of the room could not reach for the front through seventy-three men. I tried to get some water, but it was too hot, so I tried again and scalded my hands. The air in the room was unbearable. Four more men died. The two men who died previously were still in the room with us.  No one from outside bothers- why should they? If everything goes accordingly to the plan, we will all die.

The bodies begin to smell, the men nearest to the bodies cannot endure any more, and with their remaining strength, they try to pry open the boards from the windows. They succeed, but as they inhaled the fresh air- dearer than life – they were shot from outside.

The N.K.W.D.[ii] kept me for about two weeks in this room, the whole school was one prison. During these two weeks my body was one red wound – I was being eaten alive by lice. After two weeks, without explanation, I was released – a human wreck, only to be re-arrested again four months later. Near Christmas1940 I managed to reach a large city Lwow. The motto of this city is “Leopolis semper fidelis[iii]”. It is just the same city whose youth, young girls and boys, fought the Russian usurper on the streets, from behind every corner they fought and died without any help.

In January 1941, wandering aimlessly, I found myself in a trap, together with hundred of others. Soviet Russia needed forced labour. Under machine guns we were herded on large square, around us guards with sub machine guns and with large ferocious German shepherd dogs. Next morning we were shipped to the station. Non of us had anything, not even a spare pair of socks. Thirty- five man were herded into one wagon which was sealed immediately, men and women together, their ages ranging from babes in arms to old people of seventy-five. The journey began, we did not know where we were going. It is a severe winter, and we are hungry, with no fire or water. The train only stops at major stations. The food came on the second day of our journey, but not all of them (prisoners) ate, young children could not stand it. Our journey lasted two months, and we landed in the Urals Plains[iv] – just a handful of survivors in each wagon.

No time to lose, we are being assigned to work. The land as far as we can see is white with snow, no accommodations, and we slept by huge open fires, guards alike, as we deportees. We were being taught how to build a “home “in the wilderness – make a huge fire when the ground softens, dig a square hole as deep as you can, then cover it with logs, moss provides a mattress. We eat once a day stone frozen fish made into soup and black bread. Women and young girls work beside us, they are unable to fulfill their assigned quota, automatically their food ration is cut, they rapidly lose strength three thousand miles from home. Our guards were mad beasts; our young girls and women fell prey to them easily. The twenty-year-old daughter of Doctor Grocholski is raped by a drunken guard. Doctor Grocholski, himself very sick, hastens to save his child – a huge German shepherd dog jumps to his throat and, maybe mercifully, ends his suffering.

I spend most of the time in the tundra, the open gold mine. Eventually I get a better job weighing and packing gold. The food was a bit better. The fish soup “Uha” was not always rotten, during all the time we never had salt. We had plenty of tea, that means if after work we still had strength to gather certain twigs and grasses, we boiled them and have our tea. Unlike the people who were born there, we had to accustom ourselves to live, to survive.

The guards hounded us as if we were beasts of burden. They were responsible for our work quota, but early in that severe spring the attitude of our guards began to change. We were flabbergasted. Slowly the news penetrated through to us that Germany had attacked the Soviet Union – you are our allies now, so the Commissar told us, you have an opportunity to join the Soviet Army to fight our common enemy.

The news spread rapidly over the trackless tundra. General Sikorski is forming a Polish Army in London – England. There are recruiting centers in the Soviet Union, but we do not know where. Wretches as we were, we begun to cast away our tools, our aim to join the Polish Army. The nearest town is 350 miles away, several hundred of us attempt to reach it – will our strength hold on?  On the other end doctors, food and care. To control a hungry man from eating is a difficult job in that land of perpetual misery. The Polish Red Cross distributed food, food that we had not seen for a long time. The scurvy took away our teeth, then typhus came.

Eventually I got a special assignment. I found myself in Moscow – a free man, but without boots. In Soviet Russia everything is assigned, they took a few of us to a hotel. My dream was a bath, but as the hotel was “a new one” the tubs were not yet in.

A week or so later I was notified to be ready. A Soviet army limousine arrived and I, literally in rugs, stepped into the shiny vehicle and found myself in Moscow’s Metropole Hotel, four rooms at my disposal, a chambermaid specially for me. My first request was hot water – plenty of it. “What would you like to eat – salmon, steaks?”  I was asked. I replied that I want nothing but six eggs, butter and bread. After having my bath and eating, I went to bed. Around 11:00 pm there was a knock at my door, the ever-smiling chambermaid announced that the tailor has come to see me. One hour later a man arrives with a pair of shoes made in France. So far so good. My suit was ready in four days – trousers inevitably of marine patterns and width – and no wonder, everything came and was ordered by commissar Merculow. When everything was assembled, my clothes, underwear, shoes, socks, I find I have no tie. I noticed a look of consternation on the face of my chambermaid (an N.K.W.D. agent rank Captain). She said, “Colonel you will have a tie in one hour”. She went out to make a call and sure enough the tie arrived shortly afterwards.  Nearly ten o’clock at night the chambermaid is still in my apartment. I try to get rid of her, but to no avail. Towards eleven o’clock she consults her watch several times, then I realize that she has special orders – my presentiment came true when at 11:45 pm there was a knock at the door and a Soviet Major with charming smile invites me to a conference (All conferences begin at midnight).

Again, in limousine Zis – a huge black affair, the chauffeur mummy-like proceeds without orders. The Moscow streets are deserted, not one soul to be seen except army men. At last we arrived, and despite not knowing Moscow, I at once recognised the famous N.K.W.D. building near the infamous Lubinka prison. The huge gate is manned by four guards with sub machine guns, leading to a big yard and another gate of large and unusual construction – and no wonder, behind that gate sat the men who ruled Russia. The gate opens like magic. We alight from the car in front of a big portal. The guards salute the major and we find ourselves in a long corridor, heavily carpeted. The quietness is ominous. Inside on ever corner stands a guard with a side gun. Every guard a lieutenant, fanatical, young, straight like a candle.

At last, I am ushered into a huge room lit very brightly. I trod on a priceless Persian carpet; an unusually large desk made of ebony at least three hundred years old stood in the center of the room. In the four corners there were priceless antiques and beautiful cabinets. Two men sat at the desk. My escort introduces the first man as Lawrentiwicz Beria and second as Commissar Anastazy Merculow. The two men stood up and shake hands with me. Of course, that everything has been a mistake, that now we are friends. One of them asked “What can I serve you” -Two o’clock in the morning! – “Vodka, port, sherry”? Yes, thank you I said.

The door opens soundlessly, a butler pulls a large table on which stood a big and heavy tray of silver, hand carved and shining; probably centuries ago possibly made by Benvenutto Celine himself.

That one hour spent with these two arch schemers will never be forgotten, my soul turned into ashes. Men like Beria and Merculow are gone, and another Beria is in his place.

Soviet Russia is like Dante’s Hell.

“Lasciate ogni Speranza voa d’shantrat[v]”

[i] Latin – original: Hail Ceasar, those who about to die salute you. Modified to include the name of Lavrentiy Beria.

[ii] Polish – narodowy komisariat Spraw wewnetrznych, English – People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs.

[iii] Lwŏw zawsze wierny – Łaciňska dewiza Lwowa. Dewiza została nadana przez papieża Aleksandra VII w 1658 roku. In english, „Lvov always faithful”.

[iv] A region that includes the East European Plain (Priurayle) to the west of the mountains and the West Siberian Lowland (Zauralye) to the east. In polish, “Rowniny Uralskie”.

[v] Italian, from “The Divian Comedy” by Dante Alighieri. In English, “Give up all hope ye who enter; Abandon all hope ye enter”. In polish, “Porzučcie wszelką nadzieję ktŏrzy wchodzicie (do piekła)”.