Sink or Swim

By Pavol Rosa

Sink or Swim is a story based on diaries of Pavol Valiska (author’s great-grandfather) written during and after World War One.
Pavol Valiska was born on the 28th of November 1896 in the village of Palin the east of Slovakia where he studied to become a shoemaker.
In 1914, when the WWI began, he volunteered to serve in the Austro-Hungarian army. He was captured by the Russian forces in the same year after a short time in the battlefield and then was taken to the far east of Russia to a working camp. This is where the story starts and follows the next nine years of Pavol’s life in various working camps in different parts of Russia, his direct experience of the hostility of the war, life in imprisonment, but also of kindness and love.
For the most authentic reader’s experience possible, minimum of editing and styling is done to the original diaries to let the main character tell his story in his own words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pavol Rosa
• Release date: Dec 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005854720

Book preview

Sink or Swim

Pavol Rosa

Copyright © 2020 Pavol Rosa

All rights reserved.

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Contents

Introduction

Daurija

Tundra

Camp Namangan

Krasnovodsk

Red Cross Mission

Englishmen

Back to Krasnovodsk

Minister Polender

Korenovsk

The Way Home

Introduction

Sink or Swim is a story based on diaries of Pavol Valiska (author’s great-grandfather) written during and after World War One.

Pavol Valiska was born on the 28th of November 1896 in the village of Palin the east of Slovakia where he studied to become a shoemaker.

In 1914, when the WWI began, he volunteered to serve in the Austro-Hungarian army. He was captured by the Russian forces in the same year after a short time in the battlefield and then was taken to the far east of Russia to a working camp. This is where the story starts and follows the next nine years of Pavol’s life in various working camps in different parts of Russia, his direct experience of the hostility of the war, life in imprisonment, but also of kindness and love.

For the most authentic reader’s experience possible, minimum of editing and styling is done to the original diaries to let the main character tell his story in his own words.

Daurija

A train loaded with 1200 war captives in uncomfortable cargo carriages left Kyiv on the 26th of October 1914 and after 27 days of an exhausting journey it arrived at Daurija Station. Here in Manjuria, close to a town called Chita, not far from the Chinese-Mongolian border, the winter was already very cold in November.

On the right side of the station, there was a small village. On the other side, less than a mile away, there was a complex of 20 multi-story buildings, about a quarter of them still unfinished. They were meant to accommodate soldiers in the future, securing the border with China. There were various barricades and mannequins stuffed with hay in the open space between those buildings. Cossacks in training rode small Siberian horses here, slicing and piercing the mannequins with their swords. One could get shivers watching what was, at first sight, an innocent game to them.

The soldiers organized all the exhausted captives into four rows behind the train station and slowly started to march towards the camp.

All right boys said a Russian soldier to the group that I was in, here’s where you will be staying, and pointed towards the buildings.

While entering one of the buildings, I found myself face to face with Cossack Sgt Sapoznikov, taking command over the captives from a member of the army convoy.

Hey you, young one, you wait here, Sapoznikov said, putting both of his hands on my shoulders and pulling me next to him.

After the rest of the group had made their way inside the building, he split them into eight groups of thirty for each of the rooms. It took a while as captives were allowed to choose their groups. Sapoznikov sent everybody to the rooms and then he turned to me.

Follow me to my office!

Visibly frightened, I stared at the sergeant, wondering why he had picked me.

Don’t be afraid. he said, escorting me to his office where he sat me on a stool. Tell me, what is your name? he asked, quickly realizing that I did not fully understand. Your name? Family? he persisted, touching my chest with his finger.

I am Pavol, I finally managed.

Well Pavol, how old are you? Sapoznikov asked. He pointed at himself and counted thirty-six on his fingers. I nodded my understanding and showed the sergeant that I was seventeen. What nationality are you? I’m Russian he said, pointing at himself again.

I’m Slovak I replied, feeling a bit more satisfied that I had begun to understand the sergeant better by now.

Where from? he jabbed immediately.

Kosice, I answered.

So young and already a soldier? Why? the sergeant enquired. He was noticeably beginning to enjoy the conversation. Does Franz Joseph have so few soldiers that he is forced to send children to war?

In my mind I started to think quickly. What will they do to me if I speak the truth? What if I lie? My mother always stressed the importance of being honest, regardless of who you are speaking to. So I decided to tell the truth.

I’m a volunteer, I nodded.

Volunteer? he frowned, looking at me with a smile on his face as he continued. So, you wanted to be a hero? he pried.

I just wanted to protect my homeland, I replied.

Protect it from what? he fired again.

The enemy.

That means I’m your enemy too, doesn’t it? he sneered.

Yes, you are my enemy, I admitted.

The Cossack sergeant put on a friendly smile and instructed me to wait. He walked into the next room and brought in a cup of hot tea and a thick slice of bread. He put it all on a small table and, with a hand gesture, invited me to eat and drink.

We are not enemies, my son, he laughed. We are friends, he continued with an amicable demeanour.

But that’s what I was taught back home, although now I see it’s not true, I mumbled thorough a mouthful of bread.

The Cossack put his hand gently on my shoulder. I was taught the same, my son, but both of us were taught by our real enemies - Franz Joseph and Nicolas II.

Another Cossack, who had just entered the office, interrupted our conversation. Sgt Sapoznikov looked around briefly, then back at me and shrugged, Anyway, you are going to be my helper and supervisor in the barracks.

What will I do? I asked, feeling a vague sense of relief.

You will be responsible for cleanliness in the barracks. Every evening you will point out four men who will bring water to the kitchen and collect firewood for the stoves. I want all of you to be warm and comfortable here, he informed me.

After our short conversation, he shook my hand and I left to join the other men in the barracks. They were naturally very curious about my chat with the Cossack sergeant and gathered around me to learn more. Initially, they thought I might have found myself in some kind of trouble because of my being a volunteer, but when I explained everything, they started to feel much more relaxed. The friendliness of the Russians had put their minds at ease.

Exhausted, I went to lie down to my bed. The words of the Cossack sergeant ‘We are no enemies, my son, we are friends’ played over and over again in my thoughts. I still was not able to make any sense of his words. What did Franz Joseph do to me to be my enemy? I promised my loyalty to him and to my homeland as every honourable citizen should do when it comes to war. As a 17 year-old, I blindly believed in this. That was why I had volunteered to fight for my country against the enemy, the Russians. However, this Cossack was so friendly and honest when he was looking into my eyes saying, We are friends.

The first sparks of skepticism crept in and settled in the corner of my heart.

I travelled back in time in my thoughts, back to the frontline. I saw an Austrian soldier crawling, wounded from the battlefield. His battalion commander approached him on his horse.

Where is your rifle, soldier? he shouted at the wounded man.

Unable to speak, the poor man turned his head towards the battlefield in an effort to show the commander where his rifle lay. The commander pulled out his revolver, took aim and shot the soldier in cold blood.

I watched this horrific event unfold and held my rifle close to my body. I did not have enough courage to turn my gun against the murderer, but I could not understand how 400 grown men could look at this cruelty without response. It was at this moment I started to question the existence of God.

In my thoughts, I travelled further back in time, to my home village. I saw myself sitting by my mother’s feet in a small, dilapidated looking cottage. She is knitting, sitting by the stoves with a kerosene lamp providing light. She is teaching me how to sing religious songs that I enjoyed listening to very much.

The Lord is my Shepherd…

She sings quietly and I look at her with the innocent eyes of a child, drinking in every word. When I was a bit older, I used to enjoy going to school and to church. I really believed that God is everyone’s saviour.

Now, lying on the bed in the barracks with my eyes almost closed, I was deep in thought. Where was the good Lord when the commander shot that poor soldier? Why did he let this happen? Then I remembered another day, the day before we were captured. We were walking through a village, gunshots audible from all around us. I saw a young woman lying on the ground in front of a house. Her life had been taken by one of the bullets. I walked inside and saw two small children sitting on the wooden bench with a pot of potatoes on the table. I felt terribly sorry for the children. I would have given my own soul for their mother to come back to life. I took a couple of potatoes out of the pot, peeled them and gave them to the poor kids. They looked at me with their big eyes as tears poured down my face, sorrow squeezing my throat. I had to leave, as the other soldiers were a good bit further on