The Fulfillment of Visionary Dream: The Destruction of the Polish Nation

By Stella H. Synowiec-Tobis

...I acknowledge with gratitude the receipt of your book, The Fulfillment of Visionary Return. I also believe that what happened behind the iron curtain to Polish people should be known by the rest of the world...


Wallace M. Ozog,
FICPresident of Polish Roman Catholic Union of America

...You have lead me through an unbelievable example of true Catholic faith. You and Poland have lived under the most impossible conditions, still you and Poland are not tainted with hatred for your oppressors...

Mary Ann Pasternak

I plan to include your book on a list of books recommended for reading in secondary schools and for secondary school teachers who want to learn more about what happened in Poland and to Poles during and after W.W.II.

Jinny Rippeteau

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456812300

Book preview

-The Fulfillment of Dream

A Historical Narrative

based on two memoirs written by the author

at ages 13 and 15

Copyright © 2011 by Stella H. Synowiec-Tobis.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2010917341

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4568-1229-4

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4568-1228-7

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4568-1230-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

First edition:

January 16, 1998

ISBN number: 0-9655488-7-2

Second corrected edition:

August 8, 2002

ISBN number: 0-9655488-6-4

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

87005

This book is my monument in memory of my beloved Mother,

Zofia Baklazec Synowiec,

who on February 10, 1942, was lost in Vologda, U.S.S.R.

on the road to freedom from the Siberian deportation

of February 10, 1940

To my children Mark, Lila, and Lucia

To my grandchildren Sara, Larry, and Jonathan,

and To all children whose parents survived extermination

by our eternal enemies

Who were led miraculously by Our Lord to freedom

Contents

Preface

Part I: Introduction and Dream Come True

1 Jonathan, Meet My Family

2 Remembering My First Communion

3 Return

4 Moscow

5 Our Trip to Wolkowysk

6 Return to My Father’s Property

7 Vicio and Astonishment

8 September 17, 1939

Part II: Deportation to Siberia, 1940-42

9 1940-Tragic Year

10 VSTAVAY SOBYRAYSHA!

11 The 21st of February, 1940

12 The Train Reaches Its Destination

13 Tushylovo

14 Yurechek

15 Life at Tushylovo

16 The Spring and Summer of 1941

17 The Ray of Hope

18 Amnesty-July 30, 1941

19 Good Bye, Tushylovo

Part III: Freedom and New Exile, 1943-46

20 Trip to Freedom, but not Back to Poland

21 Mamushu! Mamushu!

22 Kolkhoz Namuny

23 Orphanage, and our Departure from the U.S.S.R.

24 Pahlevi-Teheran-Isfahan

25 Farewell Persia; We Are Going To India

26 The Dangerous Voyage

27 Glimpse of the U.S.A. and a Trip to Mexico

28 Life at Colonia Santa Rosa

29 Father Jozef Jarzebowski and the Message of Mercy

30 Educational Trips and a Trip to Comanjillo

31 The Dark Cloud, and a Ray of Happiness

32 Farewell, Our Childhood

Part IV: Lost Years, Lost Lives

33 Reunited After Eleven Long, Tragic Years

34 Who Were These Orphans?

35 Yalta and Katyn

Epilogue

Footnotes

About the Author

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With my brother Stashek year 1990

Preface

This book is the story of Polish people living in eastern Poland, who formed the Polish Army in exile—in the U.S.S.R.

The story of my family’s life is a microscopic fraction of what Polish people from the eastern part of that country went through during the Second World War. It has not been written about in American books or covered by reporters who very often paid with their lives to get the news out.

I have often wondered, why people didn’t consider what happened to us important. It happened to almost two million Polish people. My family’s story is only 1/333,333 of all the stories from eastern Poland.

What happened behind the iron curtain of Stalin’s Russia was known only to us. We suffered hunger, cold and the loss of our dear family members, without the civilized world knowing about it. Without the civilized world protesting. The tyrant was protected by an iron curtain.

The story of almost two million Polish people was not written about in newspapers or in history books, not even in Poland. That is why my friends and acquaintances are surprised by what I have been through in my life. They want to know more about it. They wanted me to write this book, and to be sure to sell it to them.

There were four major deportations of Poles to Siberia. Why were we deported? Because we were Polish. Because our fathers fought for freedom under Józef Pilsudski in the First World War. They won freedom from those who had oppressed us for 123 years, but they were able to enjoy this freedom for only twenty.

The period of a sovereign, united Poland lasted long enough for me to be born and live 10 years and 11 months in freedom and happiness.

It was enough time for me to learn from my parents what it was like to live during occupation; about how they cultivated their patriotism; about how lucky I was to grow up in a free country. But it lasted for only 10 years and 11 months.

I want to tell the world about what happened behind the iron curtain of Stalin’s Russia during World War II. I want to tell my friends from the Board of Pensions of the United Methodist Church, where I worked as an actuarial specialist for 26 years and 11 months. I want to tell about my family, my country, my joys and sufferings. I want to tell the world what we Polish people had to deal with from a tender age.

At the age of 13, I had to take care of my younger sister and figure out what to eat and where to sleep. The food was nothing that you would consider edible, nor would you consider sleeping where we slept.

I want to tell you how we lost our Mom. I want to tell you how my 15 year-old brother worked so that a family of five could survive in exile, and how only three of us lived through the ordeal. When freedom finally came, it did not mean freedom in the sense you normally understand the word.

I want to tell you how half of almost two million people died in Siberian labor camps. I am one of the fewer than 7% who were lucky enough to leave Siberia. This was only because my 17-year-old brother went to join the Polish Army after being a Soviet prisoner for two years.

I want to tell you how my father was arrested, sentenced in Moscow to 10 years in the gulag, and was sent to Siberia; how, with rags on his feet and back, he went to join the Polish Armed Forces. They were fighting the common enemy on the side of the Allies, were winning battles with them, but had no country to return to. Our country was given to Stalin. We were the victims of a global double standard. We were allowed to be crucified by our neighbors, and were laughed at in the U.S.A., but we survived to tell of our pain.

I am asking, Why is there no justice for us?

Why are Poles being accused abetting the horrors of the German concentration camps in Poland, where Poles as well as Jews were exterminated?

Why were Polish war prisoners, mostly officers, shot in the back in the Katyn forest and not avenged?

Why don’t the Russians, the descendants of stalinist Russia, at least apologize to the children and wives of the Katyn victims and to us, the survivors of the forced deportation to Siberia?

Why did my country become a sacrificial lamb?

I am writing about my family’s life for the sake of my children: Mark, Lila, Lucia, and my grandchildren Sara, Larry, and Jonathan. I want them to be proud of their ancestors. I want them to be as strong as I was. I want them to love their country as much as I did mine.

Part I

Introduction and Dream Come True

1

Jonathan, Meet My Family

Look, Jonathan, see those beautiful clouds? It looks like a cotton field is underneath us. Oh, look over there—does that row of clouds look like a mountain covered with fresh, soft snow? Do you see what looks like a runway in the middle? Doesn’t it make you feel that any minute we will be landing?

Where Babcia, (grandma), where?

Oh, out there—where it looks like a landing strip… see those clouds straight ahead of us?

Oh well, enough fantasizing. We left Chicago just three hours ago; it’s still several hours until we see my two cousins, Renia Apanowicz and Misha Baklazec.

Renia is the daughter of my mother’s younger brother, Jan Baklazec. Uncle Jan lives in Wolkowysk. Today, Wolkowysk is in the U.S.S.R., but before World War II it was part of Poland. Wolkowysk was my mother’s and my brother Stashek’s place of birth.

Misha is the son of my mother’s older brother Joseph Baklazec. He lives in Moscow, U.S.S.R.

My Uncle Joseph was sixteen years old in 1911 when, after a few weeks of hiding, he was caught and forced into the Czar’s Russian army. He was not let go even after the Revolution in the year 1917. He was still in the Russian army when Poland was returned to the map of Europe as a sovereign state on November 11, 1918. The part of Poland where my Mom’s family has its roots, had been occupied by Russia since the First Partition in 1792. Patriots were persecuted and arrested, and men were sent to Siberia.

I remember my mother telling me about her father. She said that he had been tortured by being tied to a horse and dragged for miles. Every so often, the Russian soldier would stop the horse and ask my grandfather if he would convert to the Russian Orthodox religion. My grandfather, Andrzej Baklazec, always answered, no. After several miles of this kind of torture, bruised and cut, they threw him into jail. They cursed him and said, proklaty Polak (cursed Pole). They kept him locked up for months. not being able to convert him to their religion, they eventually let him go.

My grandfather’s anger at the oppressor, and his love for Poland, made him want to free people from the occupier. He joined the underground movement, which gathered at night in the nearby forest. My mother was just five years old when her father did not return home from one of these meetings. The year was 1903.

My Mom was only five years old at the time—as old as you are now, Jonathan. Although she was so young, she was already an orphan. Her mother—my grandmother and your great-great grandmother—had died of double pneumonia when she was only three years old. At the time, her brother Joseph was seven and her younger brother Janek six months old.

My mother told me that she was wearing a ruffled pink dress the day grandmother called her to her deathbed. My grandmother held out her hands to my mother and said, I’ll die soon—my nails are turning blue. Remember, always be a good girl.

You are very lucky, sweetheart, I said to Jonathan. You have both parents living in the best country in the world, and there are no oppressors. You do not have to worry about your Dad going to fight for freedom. Your country is free and is not endangered by its neighbors.

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2

Remembering My First Communion

Let me tell you of my happy, and at the same time, scary memories of the events that happened in May, 1938. I was preparing for my First Holy Communion then. Religion classes were held at the public school on Friday mornings. Our priest from the Holy Trinity Church in Lyskow came to our small school in Krupa. While Catholic children were in their class, the Russian Orthodox priest and a Rabbi were teaching the children of these religions in different classrooms. We all had only one hour of these classes per week, but it was enough to prepare us for the religious practice of each faith. Although Poland was a Catholic country, everyone was allowed to practice and teach his religion, as long as his church or synagogue provided a teacher.

The month of May was chosen for the First Holy Communion for Catholic children for two reasons. One was that it was almost the end of the school year, so we had enough time to learn what was necessary for the First Holy Communion. Second, the month of May was devoted to the Mother of Jesus, for whom we have great veneration and love. The Black Madonna of Czestochowa was, and still is, known as the Queen of Poland. So I had several good reasons to prepare for my First Communion at that time of a year.

Well, in May of 1938 I was only nine and a half and I was very happy to have a beautiful white dress, and to receive Jesus Christ for the first time into my heart. I was very excited through all the preparation and learning. On Saturday before the big day, I had to go to Lyskow to the Holy Trinity Church, where all the children from different schools in the parish had practice. Our Mom prepared sandwiches and cookies for my sister Ircha and me, so we could have our picnic lunch on the way back from church. Altogether it was a seven kilometer walk, and this took us one solid hour.

We got to the church exactly at 10:00 a.m. as required. I joined the children right away for the first confession, trembling with fear of admitting my terrible sins of disobedience and fights with my friends and my sister. When I left the confessional, I felt like I was flying in the air—like I had shed a very heavy load which I had been carrying. It was trust and belief in the Lord’s forgiveness which had come over me. I was truly sorry, and promised Jesus that I would become a better person.

That was the hardest part. Then, everyone—girls first, then boys—rehearsed a practice Holy Communion. This part was fun, and as I was instructed, I did not chew the sacramental wafer.

While I was practicing for my First Communion, Ircha was sitting in the pew, watching us and guarding our goodies along with a small blanket for our picnic.

It was almost noon when we were done. Our priest told us to be in church the next day, half an hour before the Mass.

Ircha and I were so happy that soon we would be having a picnic. We went quickly through the town and by the Orthodox cemetery, which was by the edge of the forest. It was day, so the cemetery did not scare us. We found a nice spot about 300 feet from the fence among beautiful tall trees, which shaded us from the hot sun. I spread the blanket; Ircha opened our goodies. Oh, those sandwiches smelled so good and looked delicious! We said our prayer. As we were just about ready to eat our sandwiches, we saw a big black dog running straight at us from the cemetery.

We had heard from our brother Stashek about bad souls that could rise up from their bodies at midnight, taking the form of black dogs, but he did not tell us that they did the same thing in broad daylight, at noon. The dog was charging real fast; we did not have time to think. I grabbed the blanket without paying attention to the goodies. Everything flew around except my prayer book, which I was holding onto in one hand, with the blanket in the other. We ran as fast as our feet could carry us and we did not stop until we came out of the forest. By then, we were almost at the Osoczniki village. not until then did I realize that I had lost my little purse with my special First Communion rosary. I was very upset, but there was no way we would turn back and face the evil spirit, especially as there was no one on the road.

Hungry but happy that we had gotten away without being hurt, we finally slowed down and kept on walking until we reached Dziekonski’s estate. Since we were allowed to cut through their estate, we took a path through their fields. This shortened our walk by a lot. This path was used only by the workers in the fields, so we didn’t expect to see anyone there. On both sides of the path the crops were still green. There were tall rye plants swaying in the sun with each whiff of the wind. Here and there a blue bachelor’s button looked out or a wild pansy hid in the shade.

We forgot our hunger and started picking those flowers which we could reach without destroying the rye. The bouquet looked better and better with each addition. We were so happy to bring pretty flowers for our Mom, which she would place on the little devotional altar where we prayed twice a day.

Little did we know that danger was waiting for us here, as well. Down in the west side of the field between the stalks of rye, we noticed something moving. The gray wolf came charging at us again. His red bloody eyes looked straight at us, and those teeth! We gave out a scream and started running fast without looking back—holding on to each other and to the flowers, the blanket, and my First Communion prayer book. For a mile and a half we ran without stopping until we saw our Mom waiting for us at the gate.

All sweaty and tired, we told her about our close call with the wolf and the evil spirit. Mom explained that is was only a dog—a hungry dog. An hour later, a woman from the Brantowce village, which was another kilometer farther, came asking if anything had happened. They had heard that terrible scream as far away as the village.

Well, it all happened fifty years ago but I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday—the church, the road to it, the Dziekonski’s palace and those beautiful, royal blue flowers.

How about the dog and wolf, Babcia? asked Jonathan.

You know, I remember that better than anything else. Some time ago my sister recollected the wolf’s bloodshot eyes staring straight at us. Those eyes, she said, scared her most. She remembers it still as if it happened yesterday. She was only eight years old at the time.

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3

Return

For years I dreamed about going back to the place of my birth, but I never thought that it would really happen. My dreams were more than daydreams—they were filled with a longing, faith and hidden trust in the Lord, Our Heavenly Father.

I did not realize how many surprises I would encounter on that trip. I did not know what lay on the other side of the Iron Curtain, where so much bad had happened to my family and to hundreds of thousands of other Polish families; where so much good had been left behind. The good memories were the magnets which were pulling me. I had no control over them. But Our Lord was good to me. He fulfilled my hidden desire to go back to my childhood, to the happiest eleven years of my life.

I am going back. I am taking with me those that I love: my grandson Jonathan, my daughter Lila, and my nephew Michael. I am so happy that I am allowed to share my memories with them and that they will witness my return.

It is September, 1988, forty nine years since the beginning of the Second World War. The memories of it create fear in me, but I do not share the fear with my loved ones. These thoughts are mine alone; I want them to enjoy the trip. I want them to remember this trip as a happy one. I want to show them the place where my Mom watched me take my first steps; where I picked beautiful wild flowers for her and where I was the happiest!

4

Moscow

The first stop was at a place I had no desire to go—Moscow. Why Moscow? Because my cousin Misha, whose father—my long lost mother’s older brother, who helped us survive the deportation to Siberia—lives there. I have to tell Misha that I owe my life to his father. I have to tell him that if it were not for his father, I would have died a long time ago.

We will meet for the first time in our lives. He is Russian; I am Polish-American. We are first cousins. We will meet today—it is reality. It is true—it will be today, early in the morning.

These thoughts are going through my head. I wish the time would start moving faster.

While waiting for the luggage, my mind races back to the Moscow of 48 years ago. To Moscow Station, where we had been allowed to come out of our cattle cars to take a look at the city. I remember that we were on a hill. The city was down toward the south. I hated it. It was the city of our enemy, the enemy who had taken my country, my father, and my father’s property; which had loaded us into those dark, dirty animal box cars. It was February, 1940. I was a little eleven-year-old girl, but I remember it very well.

Now, almost half a century later. I stand in the same city at the airport, waiting to meet my cousin. The fear has left me. The hate? I am not sure. But the soldiers with guns patrolling the airport bring out the fear and sad memories of long ago. Should I hate them? Is it their fault that they remind me of those dreadful years of the Second World War and Stalin’s U.S.S.R.?

As I was immersed in my memories, our luggage arrived. One piece was missing, and I had to fill out some papers in an office. Finally, we passed through customs and I was hugging a Russian, my cousin.

Do you think there was a distance between us? no. We hugged each other and kissed like we had known each other for years. He would have been a complete stranger on the street, but not at the Moscow airport at 4:25 a.m. on September 26, 1988. At first, I had to ask him who he was because the photographs did not do him justice. But once we recognized each other, we were family.

How fast did my feelings change.I did not think of him any more as a Russian. It was immaterial. I was thinking of him as the son of my mother’s brother. I love him. He is beautiful—he is my first cousin.

Kak imieyeshsha? (How are you?), I asked him in my rusty Russian.

Horosho (Very well), he replied. Well, I was glad that his answer was short. If it had been longer, I would have been unable to understand him.

I was trying really hard to bring back memories of the language which I spoke fluently so many years ago. For so long I had tried to block out the cruelty of the deportation and the imprisonment in Siberia, which made me want to forget the language more quickly. No one spoke about or wanted to remember the accursed country and its language, which had brought so much misery to us Poles from the East of the country. Once Polish, our land was now in the U.S.S.R.

Now with my cousin Misha next to me, I wished I could speak Russian fluently. I wished I could understand better. Misha was in a better situation. He said he understood Polish, so whenever unknowingly I changed from Russian into Polish, he did not interrupt. I would go on until Lila said, Mom, you are speaking Polish; he does not understand you. He did, but it was worse when again without thinking I would change into English. Then again Lila would remind me that Misha did not know what I was saying. At that point, I had to stop and repeat myself.

With Misha at the airport was my other first cousin, Renia. Renia had come to Moscow from Wolkowysk, my native city, with her granddaughter Lana. I remember Renia from before the war. The last time I saw her, in 1938, she was only thirteen years old. now she looked like a seventy-yearold woman, worn out from struggling for survival.

She said, I worked hard, but we were able to visit different parts of the USSR on many occasions.

She will be our leader for the next two weeks. We will be traveling with her to the town of Wolkowysk, which is only 30 kilometers from the Polish border. I am very happy to have her along as my Russian language is very rusty and I need an interpreter. The forty-seven years of not practicing the language is very noticeable. On many occasions I am forced to speak Russian, and I am surprised how fast that language comes back to me. Still, it is easier to understand Misha and Lana, than to answer or ask questions.

Whenever I was stuck, Renia would come to my rescue. She spoke both languages fluently. We were in good hands not only in conversation, but also because she knew how to get around in the country.

We had no permission to stay in Moscow, but Our Lord helped us. A piece of our missing luggage made it possible. Misha said, You have to stay until your luggage arrives. You will stay at my house.

The missing luggage was a large cardboard box with different types of smoked polish sausage, a variety of spices, gum, chocolates and fabrics for dresses. All the items were gifts for my relatives. Luckily, I had some more fabrics in other suitcases. That saved my situation. Even today, I remember the smell of that box and my intention of sharing our American food with my cousins.

After filling out papers at the Lost and Found office and searching through many boxes, we departed in two taxis to Misha’s apartment, where we met his lovely family: his wife Natasha, and his daughters Tania and Katia. It was very early in the morning. Natasha was getting ready for work, and Tania was getting ready for school. Since we were very tired after the trip, we went to sleep.

My two cousins stayed in another room by themselves until finally, at 2:O0 p.m. in the afternoon, we came out from the bedroom. At that time I learned that Misha’s family would stay at their maternal grandmother’s apartment so as to make our stay more comfortable and private.

The windows of their apartment faced a large park, where there was a vystavka (exhibit). It was a lovely view. The next day, early in the morning, Renia decided to take us to the vystawka and show us the exhibits of household items. They were very expensive and to us Polish-Americans, nothing to admire. It was like a large Sears store, only there was not enough choice of sizes and styles. Renia’s granddaughter bought a pullover sweater for 80 rubles ($150). It was made from a synthetic fiber and very plain. The rest of us bought nothing. The few sweaters, dresses and skirts were in small sizes only and very overpriced. Sears stores in the USA have so much more to offer.

After visiting that building which was of no interest to us, we walked on the grounds of vystavka (exhibit), where a couple of buildings were standing, but we couldn’t go in. There were also a few rockets on display. We found an ice cream vendor selling by the sidewalk, which made Jonathan very happy. That was the tastiest ice cream I have ever eaten. I’m sure it was made from real cream, Jonathan recalls. That was the only Russian thing that Jonathan had eaten in Moscow. He could not drink their milk, because it wasn’t fresh; it had a sour taste. He was lucky that Lila had brought powdered milk and Cheerios.

The second day, we went to Red Square. I was surprised at the size of it. We arrived at the opposite end of the courtyard from St. Basil’s Basilica, which had been turned into a museum. On the way to the cathedral we passed by Lenin’s tomb, but nobody in our group wanted to see it. By the time we arrived there, I was worn out from walking the cobblestone streets, and by the time we found ourselves inside this beautiful basilica I was totally exhausted. I sat down to rest.

After a short break, we started our tour, which again turned into a disappointing experience. The walls were stripped out of all the holy pictures; there were only the red brick walls in every room, whether small or large. I had no feeling that I was inside a beautiful basilica. It was very disappointing to see this Lord’s house, where the devoutly Russian Orthodox worshipped God with song and prayer.

The following day, day three, we were interested in seeing the ballet or opera. On such short notice we were unable to get good seats, so we took a taxi. Misha showed us around the city. I wanted to take everyone to lunch, as it was 1:00 p.m. and we all were hungry. Misha looked sad and disturbed. He started asking the taxi driver where he thought it would be possible to get lunch. Finally, they agreed on one place, only to learn that they were not serving lunch there. We tried three restaurants, but none of them had any food. After finally reaching the fourth restaurant, Misha went in to ask. When he came out, he announced, They have only one dish, but you would not want to eat it.

Misha instructed the taxi driver to take us to the university by the Moscow River, which was Misha’s alma mater. It was a very windy day. While standing in front of the university, I was wondering why Chicago was called the Windy City. How should we call Moscow? The freezing wind was blowing at least 40 miles per hour and we all kept our coats buttoned up tight. We took a couple of pictures and started our ride back to Misha’s home.

Renia did not go with us this day, so when we arrived home dinner was ready for us, prepared from meat which Renia had brought from Wolkowysk. It was the best meal we had had since arriving in Moscow, and it was our last meal at Misha’s house.

Our luggage was not found despite the promise of the authorities and their statements that nothing was ever lost at the Moscow airport. I was reminded of my experience in the station at Vologda, where every day they lied to us. I was not surprised by their ridiculous statement. I realized then, that the smell of the luggage had given away the nature of its contents to some connoisseur of polish sausage.

Thanks to our lost luggage, we spent three days in Moscow. It was a small price to pay for such a pleasant time we had with my cousin and his family.

At this point, Misha decided with Renia that we had been lucky to have a three day visit, and that we should not press our luck any further. So he went to the railroad station to buy tickets for our trip to Wolkowysk.

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My two cousins: Misha, Renia, Lana (Renia’s granddaughter)

and Jonathan asleep in Lila’s arms.

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5

Our Trip to Wolkowysk

I was surprised that our tickets were to Grodno, not to Wolkowysk. In 1940, Wolkowysk was a very important city with three railroad stations, but the war left its toll. The city was destroyed by the German-Russian war and