Our Grandfather's Stories

By Joseph Emil Dumański

Joseph Emil Dumański was born on Nov 26, 1921, in Trybuchowce, Buczacz Township, Tarnopol Region. Just prior to the start of the Second World War, he began studies in the Pedagogical Institute in Stanisławów. He was a Boy Scout and was named an "adept glider pilot."
In November 1939, he was arrested by the NKWD (Soviet Secret Police) for attempting to escape to Hungary to join the newly forming Polish Army. He was imprisoned in Nadwórna and Stanisławów and then spent nine months in prison in Odessa. In September 1940, he was sentenced without trial to three years in the Russian Gulag. First he worked in the stone quarries in the Samara Labour Camp, and then in May, 1941 he was sent to the Northern USSR to the Peczora Gulag.
Amnesty and release from prison were granted to the Polish soldiers as a result of the Sikorski – Majski Treaty in September, 1941. After difficult travels through the southern part of the USSR, he reached Buzułuk and joined the army of General Anders. As a member of the flight group, Fifth Squadron, he received initial training in Kołtubańka, where he was stricken with typhus and spent a long and difficult rehabilitation in hospital.
In March 1942, he left the USSR for Persia with the army of General Anders. Further flight training took place in Canada and England. In December 1943, he graduated at the top of his class with the rank of Sergeant – Navigator.
During the following war years, he served as a navigator in the 307 Squadron Night Fighters ("Night owls from Lwów") as a member of the Polish Air Force in Great Britain. He was seriously wounded. He was decorated with the Cross of Valour, as well as many other medals. At the end of the war he received the rank of lieutenant.
After the war he studied at the University of London, but left in 1947 to settle in Canada, where he continued his studies and was subsequently employed by Ontario Hydro. In retirement, he was an active member of the Polish church, choir and social groups in Toronto, and a member of the Society of "Siberians" in Kraków.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9780228872979

Book preview

Our Grandfather’s Stories

Copyright © 2024 by Joseph Emil Dumański

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-7298-6 (Hardcover)

978-0-2288-7299-3 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-7297-9 (eBook)

I, Joseph Dumański, dedicate this book with my grandparental blessings to my beloved grandchildren: golden-haired Kathryn, azure-eyed Alexander, and newly born Kristina.

I wish I could rewrite these stories in a more professional literary style, along the lines of Mickiewicz and Sienkiewicz, and then send them out into the great spacious printed world. Nevertheless, I will let them remain as is without change, because this is the way they are deeply rooted in my memory and have been repeated over and over again to my family.

Despite the mistakes and shortcomings, I will let them remain, exclusively for you, tales of a grandfather who loves you dearly.

Joseph Emil Dumański

Tales of Grandpa Jo-Jo

RE-DEDICATION 2022

Dearest Dziadzio,

You gifted us, your grandchildren, with your epic account of some of the most important moments of your life. The awe-inspiring journey you took will forever be remembered in our hearts. We have taken the original story you wrote in Polish and carefully and diligently edited it to hopefully bring it closer to the finished product you dreamed of sharing. It has lovingly been translated into English by our mother, Barbara, and presented here chronologically. The few historical pictures available have been collected, and we have created maps and a timeline to track the journey. The artwork, added by Kristina, is a loving tribute to your story.

We dedicate this to your memory, with love and gratitude.

Barbara, Kathryn, Kristina, Alexander

TABLE OF CONTENTS

RE-DEDICATION 2022

INTRODUCTION

FELUŚ

IZIO

OLEŃKA

MARCIN

MIRKO MIŠAG

MILITARY PREPAREDNESS CAMP, PASIECZNA

A SPRIG OF ROSEMARY

FATHER PETER

GLIDING COURSE IN USTIANOWA

MY SEPTEMBER

THE ENEMY IN MY VILLAGE

THE ENEMY IN MY HOME

THE ENEMY IN MY SCHOOL

ALEA IACTA EST

BEHIND BARS

PRISON CHAPEL

DURING THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS

PRISONERS

PRISONERS: OUR ORIGINAL GROUP

OUR TEAM EXPANDS

PRISON COMFORTS GREAT AND SMALL

THE PRISON GUARDS: KARAULS

INTERROGATIONS

POST-PRISON THOUGHTS

THE STONE QUARRY WORKERS

SASHKA AND MISHKA

IN THE BARRACK WITH GRISHKA AND TZAR

DRAUGHTSMAN

LAYOUT DRAUGHTSMAN, WELDER, ASSEMBLER

CHRISTMAS EVE IN SAMARA GULAG

WATER PRESSURE TOWER

ENTERING INTO THE HEART OF DARKNESS

A MIDSUMMER’S NIGHT DREAM

AMNESTY

A BANQUET, A FEAST

SEARCHING FOR BREAD

JOINING THE ARMY

LEATHER JACKET

THE OLD JEW

DESANT (BOUNTY HUNTER)

SHOES . . . SHOES . . . SHOES

ONCE I SPIED A BIRCH TREE

TYPHUS IN KOŁTUBANKA

KOŁTUBANKA TO KERMINE

KERMINE TO PAHLEVI

IN A PERSIAN MARKET

BACK IN THE PERSIAN MARKET

BOMBAY HARBOUR

IN BOMBAY

BOMBAY TO CAPE TOWN

CAPE TOWN

A RAY OF SUNSHINE

ATLANTIC CROSSOVER

FIRST LECTURES

CAPTAIN JACK

LOVE STORY, VOLUME 1

THE FIRST NAVIGATOR

I HAVE A DATE WITH HER AT NINE O’CLOCK

LOVE STORY, VOLUME II

307 SQUADRON

LOST IN THE CLOUDS

THE CRASH

FROM HOSPITAL TO HOSPITAL

THE DEATH OF OUR COLONEL

TOŃKO AND AUDREY

EDZIO

MOWING THE TREE TOPS

MISSING IN ACTION

THE COLONEL AND I

TWO LETTERS

TWO OF MY SISTER’S MEMORIES

MR. EDITOR AND THE WAR GROOM

ADDENDUM FROM THE AUTHOR

Jan Dumański, 1878-April 29, 1956. Maria Dumańska (maiden name: Chmielewska), August 15, 1886 – March 17, 1972

INTRODUCTION

Mr. Joseph Dumański is a large, broad-shouldered and—as is often noted with such heavyset persons—open-hearted gentleman, always ready to engage in conversation. This along with his southeastern Polish sentimentality and accent all add up to a charming person indeed.

Conversations are always pleasurable and profitable. One can learn fascinating stories, yet at the same time observe how to treat others in Christ-like ways. In contrast to society’s worldliness and enjoyment of gossip, Mr. Joseph never permits himself to say anything negative about the people around him. Listening to his many interesting stories, I often thought that they should be committed to paper.

One day, I found a typewritten manuscript called Tales of Grandpa Jo-Jo on my desk for perusal. The day was memorable: the Berlin Wall was brought down. It had been fifty years since the events that led to the writing of this book occurred. Over these decades, many similar memoirs, diaries and personal histories have described stories of people surviving Russian occupation during the war. I assumed that this book would join the others in reviewing events that we all knew and remembered so well. In reading these tales, however, my curiosity was piqued and my interest absorbed in the author’s unique circumstances, judgements and sentiments. The book resounded with a strength of character and faith in God that superseded every calamity, proof that one can survive the depths of misery by trusting in God alone. Evidence of a man actively fighting for his homeland and then creating his own family life in Canada is proof of divine providence and blessing!

What is indeed worthy of special attention is Mr. Joseph’s understanding and appreciation of Polish literature and poetry. Raised with an awareness of Polish classical literature, the Bible and a plethora of patriotic poetry, he instinctively knows how to express his thoughts and ideas in a way that creates the desired effect. In similar fashion, he has been reciting poetry and orating within Polish church groups here in Toronto. In reading the tales, we connect with a man who not only lived through these adventures and hardships, but who can describe and comment on them in meaningful fashion. Each chapter comes to life in a way that affects us deeply.

We have reached a place now where events that occurred in Soviet Russia during the war are being revealed and analyzed. Among the many historical books on this subject, Mr. Joseph’s should be highlighted due to the individuality of this author. His stories delve into personal emotions and reactions and introduce real people, their thought processes, mistakes and failures, as well as their successes. Indeed, this was the ultimate challenge. One not only had to conquer oneself and survive, but also confront the combined forces of evil.

Rev. Teofil Szęndzielarz, OMI

Oblate of Mary Immaculate

Mississauga, 1990

Joseph Dumański, November 26, 1921 – February 1, 2017. Helena Dumańska (married name: Różycka), February 12, 1927 – March 25, 2001

Feluś 1918

FELUŚ¹

Growing up, Feluś played a significant role in shaping my life. Although only a child, his impact on my life was extraordinary. He was a companion, a confidante, a soldier and a close friend. His portrait hung on the wall beside my bed: Feluś in a military uniform made from an army blanket, wearing a belt and sabre and standing at attention.

He was my older brother. Having died three years before I was born, Feluś was never able to be my defender, my protector nor my advisor. However, he was ever present in our family prayers and discussions and therefore played a prominent role in my life.

Feluś was born in 1914, even more precious to my parents in that they had waited seven long years before he blessed their marriage with his presence. He was loved and adored. He grew into a happy, bright child, smiling to the world morning and night, charming all who met him.

While Feluś was growing healthy and happy, Archduke Ferdinand was assassinated and the Great War began. News of the war only reached our quiet village in Bosnia Hercegovina by way of postcards and telegrams, telling of loss of life and limb. Father was conscripted into the Austrian army, although he repeatedly tried to visit his home and beloved family as often as he could. Feluś continued to grow, singing songs of his own creation, smiling at his little world and dreaming of owning his own uniform and sabre one day. Father promised to bring him a toy horse on his next visit but had to return to active duty.

The fate of Austria declined both at the front and on home ground. Everything was in short supply: workers, food, provisions. Mother, alone at home with Feluś, tried her best to manage, her life filled to the brim with happiness as she watched her son grow and develop.

Then came 1918. After four years of devastating warfare and disasters, the country was destitute, hungry and wasting away from epidemics and health problems. Feluś became ill.

Although he remained cheerful and smiling despite his high fever and illness, the doctors diagnosed bacterial meningitis and warned of imminent death. An urgent telegram was sent to the front, calling for his father’s immediate return to the bedside of his dying son.

Feluś continued to smile and be of good cheer until his eyes finally closed and his life quietly ended. Mother was distraught and broken-hearted, anxiously waiting for father to return from the front line. After nine days had passed and church customs and services had been completed, it became necessary to lay Feluś to rest in the village cemetery. A temporary wooden cross was erected over the small mound, moistened by mother’s never-ending tears.

Mother was reluctant to return to her empty home. Her reason for living, the love of her life, was gone. She looked at the outside world through drawn curtains, full of remorse and empty of joy. On the next day, a horse-drawn wagon brought father home from the train station, his arms laden with gifts for his ailing son.

Where is Feluś?

Sobbing, mother was unable to speak a word. The message was clear.

What have you done? You have killed our son!

Father ran out of the house and rushed to the cemetery, frantic. He grabbed a shovel with which to unearth his beloved son. Mother ran after him. Friends and family surrounded him, a heartbroken father desperate to grieve for the loss of his precious son. That fresh grave was drenched with the tears of his parents and friends.

Mercifully, time slowly healed the pain in my parents’ hearts. The photo of four-year-old Feluś has looked down upon me with loving and wise eyes for as long as I can remember. His life and the suffering that my parents endured after his death remain a life lesson for me.

Feluś, may your soul rest in peace. May you live on in our hearts.

Maria & Feluś

IZIO²

Izio and I were both born in 1921, to the delight of the Dumański family and our neighbours, the Hackmeier family.

Our families had always been friends, but this union was intensified as both boys, from the cradle on, became inseparable. We shared everything and nothing disturbed our friendship. There were no secrets between us, allowing our dreams to be boundless.

Our families respected and loved each of us, and we were always welcome in each other’s homes. If the weather was inclement and we wanted some time alone together, we usually chose to stay in Izio’s home.

It was huge, ideal for children to play in. There were many rooms in the homestead, but our favourite was the large communal eating area, smelling of beer and garlic, that served as the local inn. Most days the room was empty, so we could run around between the tables, playing a never-ending assortment of imaginary games. As we matured somewhat, we played ping pong on the tables, chess games or cards. Other days, we spread out our school and library books to work on assignments. Occasionally a hungry or thirsty customer would sit down at the window, waiting for a drink and a hot meal. Invariably it was a close acquaintance who would not object to our antics.

Sometimes we would quietly sit in the corner, listening to Izio’s mother playing her mandolin and singing beautiful Jewish or Polish melodies. Our hearts would throb in our chests as we listened with rapt attention to the haunting tunes. Izio’s father was a tall, handsome man, always busy working somewhere in the homestead and smiling, especially as he bent down to kiss his wife in gratitude for her beautiful music and hard work.

There were large containers for local farm products, each one containing a different crop and bearing a unique aroma. On workdays this place was very busy as sacks and wagons were unloaded and loaded. Our playtime was therefore relegated to evenings and holidays, when these rooms were dark and silent. At this time, the secret corridors and storerooms became the field of action for the detective Nat Pinkerton, or the cowboy Jack Texas and the Redskin Last Mohicans.

From here it wasn’t far to the living quarters of the home, where Izio’s mom often invited us for hot chocolate. The kitchen was always filled with wonderful aromas of herbs and fried foods. The next rooms were living quarters, fragrant with Izio’s mom’s perfume. And beyond that was the rear exit into the backyard, a large field ready for games and frolics.

There were sheds full of wagons, carriages, sleighs and various rigs and equipment for transportation. Beyond this was a large stable with horses and cows, cared for by Wasyl (Basil). He was always delighted when we visited, happy to interrupt his work to sit down, light a cigarette (which we gifted him with), and regale us in Ukrainian with stories from his military service on the front line in his service in the Austrian army.

Occasionally unforeseen circumstances interfered with our plans, causing us to change our routines. In 1929, an infantry regiment forced itself into our village for their summer exercises, and our playing area was occupied by soldiers. Instead, we sat avidly and listened to the adventures the officers bragged about over drinks and tankards of ale.

One day, a private entered the common room and reported to a young lieutenant: Lieutenant, sir! I have to inform you that our regiment colonel requests your presence instantly in his commanding office.

Tell the commander to come here and kiss my arse.

Yes sir! As per your orders, Lieutenant.

The soldier clicked his heels and quickly exited the inn. We were terrified at what the consequences might be of this rude retort. The young officer rose, begged forgiveness from the surrounding officers for his rash statement and a gunshot was heard. He had shot himself in the head. The sound of the gunshot echoed through the building.

Call for medical help! someone shouted.

Colleagues bent over their fallen comrade. We also stepped closer and witnessed blood pooling on the floor, mixing with spilled beer. A military funeral was held at our village church.

As time went on, tutors and instructors started paying us visits. Together we were taught Latin and violin, but Izio had private sessions. Covered in a prayer shawl with an ivory pointer in his hand, he learned to sing the words of the prophets and King David under the strict tutelage of his teacher. I, on the other hand, was tapping my feet impatiently, upset that our playtime was being tampered with.

My catechism lessons almost cast a shadow on our friendship, but we discussed and debated matters at great length, coming to the conclusion that it was the Romans and Egyptians that killed our Saviour.

Over the radio we could hear the shrill voice of some idiot in Berlin, threatening to overcome the world. Family from Germany began visiting Izio’s home, sharing strange stories of injustice and terror.

These Germans have no idea how to live in peace and harmony.

Thank goodness that we have a strong border dividing us from them, guarded by our army and Marshal Piłsudski.

Our eastern border was guarded by the KOP (Borderland Security Corp) and only Sergiusz Piasecki was able to freely cross back and forth. Occasionally escapees arrived in our village, having crossed the Zbrucz River in rags, but happily singing songs of deliverance.

And then came the summer holidays, full of travel and adventure. I often attended Boy Scout camps or, later, army camps. Izio visited the mountains of Zakopane or the Baltic coast. After our return, we would go on long walks together, sharing stories and memories. We would often travel to the town of Buczacz, which had a cinema, a theatre and our high school. On most days we walked the distance, but if it was cold or snowy we would travel by horse-drawn wagon or sleigh.

The path to our school led over a hill called Fedor. Along the way was a soccer field used by three local clubs: Pilawa (Polish), Burewij (Ukrainian) and Hakoah (Jewish). As high school students we were not allowed to play there, only to observe. If we were waiting for a ride, it would be in the area owned by Okocim Beer. The aroma was intense. Our wagon would then have to make several stops, shopping on behalf of the inn as well as meeting other village needs. We delighted in stopping at the butcher (Warszylewicz), the bakery (Margulesa) and, most of all, the confectionary (Perlman and Widak). We were allowed to sample some of these marvelous delights on the way home!

If a winter storm howled and blustered around us, the sleigh slithering from one side of the road to the other, Izio would holler into Wasyly’s ear, Please return home, it is too dangerous to be on the road! Wasyly would reply, But your father will be upset! Upon returning home, we would immediately put on our cross-country skis and disappear for the entire day into the countryside.

On occasion, we had the urge to taste some vodka. Izio would approach his grandmother and complain of a toothache. She would always respond in the same manner: Keep a little bit of this liquid on your tooth and the pain will disappear, but be very careful not to swallow the liquid—just spit it out right away!

Needless to say, the precious liquid was never spat out. Indeed, his grandmother was not even surprised that Joseph’s tooth would always hurt simultaneously with Izio’s. After all, they did everything together!

On other occasions, we would enjoy celebrating holy days together. Placing a yarmulke on my head, I would accompany Izio to the local synagogue either in our village or in Buczacz. The deep, sonorous incantations praising Jahweh filled our hearts and souls with joy, peace and pure, prayerful delight.

Over the summer of 1939, we were apart while I enjoyed a summer gliding course. When I returned, Izio was not in the village, and sadly I was not even able to bid him farewell on the day I ultimately had to leave.

It was forty years later that I learned what happened when the Germans occupied our village. Several of the local village youth, dressed in black German armbands, with souls even blacker than their uniforms, rounded up all of the local Jewish families into the cellar of my home (we shared a building with the village police station). There they tortured and slaughtered all of the families, including my beloved friend and soul mate, Izio Hackmeier.

May he rest in peace. God bless his soul.

OLEŃKA³

Every one of us has a place that is filled with happy thoughts from childhood,

a place firmly engrained in our memories . . .

. . . a small village with a rivulet running thru it,

fields covered in lily of the valley and flowering bushes

forests thick with aromatic pine trees and spruce;

where a single wild rose vividly adds its blooms.

Where birch trees snuggle beside the life-giving spring waters . . .

In flowering prose, poets describe their childhood memories, pastoral and angelic. In such fashion I also recall my childhood days, wholeheartedly participating in village activities, working enthusiastically at my school lessons and generally being at peace with my life circumstances. During spring, my days passed with the fragrance of flowers in the air and the sounds of vespers lifting the villagers’ prayers up at the end of the day. During the hot, sun-filled summer days, I enjoyed the fragrance of ripe wheat fields as I wandered through meadows, and the serenity of surrounding ponds and lakes where one could be lost in quiet thoughts. In the fall, I remember the fields of ripe corn and hemp plants, aromatic in the cool autumn days. Then the silent whiteness of wintertime, when sleighs and skis would slide over the snowy fields. Christmas would be a joyous time filled with religious rites and ceremonies from morning church services during Advent to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, all surrounded by frosty, snow-covered meadows. Life was simple yet vibrant and fulfilling.

Suddenly, in the midst of this carefree existence—apart from the usual drama involved in learning mathematics and grammar—she entered my life. I neither desired nor expected her. I was not searching for her. She came uninvited: love, my first crush. I had not noticed her before, sitting in the front pews of our classroom along with all her girlfriends. We boys occupied the back benches of the classroom.

The teacher called her to stand before the class and recite a poem by Konopnicka that we had all been required to memorize. He introduced her: Oleńka Maximówna.

She stepped up from her first-row seat, curtsied gracefully and asked:

Do you love your home—your family home

which during summer nights, in silvery mist

along with the rustle of linden trees

echoes within your dreams

and peacefully wipes every tear from your eyes?

And if you do love it,

if you wish to live under its gentle roof,

consuming the bread of your family harvests,

then guard your home with all your heart

and embed your heart within the foundations of your home.

Every word of this poem was pronounced clearly and carefully, accentuated by her lovely soprano voice. She would occasionally add a Ukrainian accent to a word, making it even more melodic, like a flower with drops of morning dew sparkling on its petals.

She had been living in proximity to her schoolmates, but today I noticed her for the first time. There she stood in her white school uniform blouse and blue skirt, her pale face intently focused on her presentation. Two long black braids framed her face, her black eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of her endeavor. She looked in my direction but likely did not even notice me. Did she realize at all what impact she had on my thoughts and emotions? She had completely overpowered me.

With a polite curtsy she returned to her seat, satisfied with her performance. Unknown to her, I had just become her slave. I could not even introduce myself to her, as we had been classmates for several years. I could not congratulate her, as this was a routine homework assignment. I could not walk her home after school, as we lived in opposite directions. Besides, she was always surrounded by her girlfriends.

I could only pray quietly and carry her vision in my thoughts.

I was afraid to say her name out loud for fear of somehow tainting it. I finally felt that there was someone in this world to whom I wanted to dedicate myself, to serve, to do everything and anything that might make her happy. But where to turn with my thoughts and questions? Was there anyone I could discuss these feelings with? My parents? My baby sister? My schoolmates? My Father confessor? Nobody!

I turned to heaven, humbly asking for advice, help and a miracle.

"Oh Mary, Mother of Perpetual Help, please help me if you care to. I cannot openly speak with Oleńka. I would only stutter and stammer or become mute with embarrassment. Perhaps if she spoke to me first? I cannot write to her; my simple words would be uninteresting and unworthy. Perhaps if I write out beautiful verses