Czeslaw Chwiecko was born to Jan and Maria (nee Kostkiewicz) on 28 July 1936, in Łachwa, near Łuniniec, eastern Poland. His father was a farmer, and his mother was a seamstress. His siblings were: Władysław (died in infancy), Helena, Bronisława, Władysław, and Walentyna.

 

The following was written by Czeslaw in February 2010:

 

“ is the fall of 1943; I am seven years old. My family was sent to work as slave labour in German factories. Because of my age, I am not required to go but my parents take me with them, because with WW2 raging, I would not survive on my own. Travelling to Germany from Eastern Poland takes place in freight railway cars and takes about seven days. Freight cars, having no windows, force their occupants to partially open one sliding door for ventilation and light. There are no sanitary facilities in them. There is little chance to see out as many try to be close to the open door.

 

Occasionally, I can look out but see mostly freight traffic with military equipment, going in the opposite direction to the Russian front. The travel is mostly stop and go, stop and reverse. The smoke, belching out of the locomotive and those of the other trains is suffocating.

 

When we enter German territory, destruction is everywhere, on a scale unimaginable, with freight yards and sidings packed with thousands of damaged rail cars and locomotives. Through cities, I see numerous bombed out buildings and bomb craters.

A most gruesome sight is that of a man on our train, who holds his head out of the partially opened door, when someone brakes in a following box car causing the door to slide, which crushes the man’s head against the frame.

 

Finally, we end up in Western Germany, in a town called Mettmann and we are settled in barracks within a brick-wall enclosed factory complex called Wagner. The plant produces iron castings for mines, shells and pipe-fittings.

I and another boy are the two youngest among several hundred forced labourers of several nationalities, but because of our age, we are not required to work.

 

It is midsummer of 1944 and very hot, now I am eight years old and all labourers, men and women, work in various factories six days a week. Sundays are work free. I and the boy BR, with nothing to do and with boys’ curiosities, explore parts of the compound where the guards cannot see us. And we get into trouble. Adjacent to the gate to the compound stands a main office building on one side and a guards’ station on the other. Under the office building is a pedestrian tunnel, for movement of workers between various factories. I discover that the shape of the tunnel somehow amplifies echo sounds. So, one day, BR and I do what little boys do, we go into the tunnel and shout as loud as we are able and listen to the echoes. In a few minutes, this fun is interrupted when two guards rush in, one carrying a rifle and the other a long-coiled whip. I freeze with fear. I am unable to move.

 

A flash of memory comes before my eyes from the year before, when a bunch of Russian partisans (who murdered my uncle, who was the sheriff of the village where we lived) captured my mother and me, and directed us into adjacent forest to shoot us, wrongfully suspecting us of being sympathizers of the occupying Germans. There, I saved our lives by simply crying uncontrollably, this prompted one of them to convince the others to let us go. And they did.

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Now I stand here in that tunnel, immobilized, my legs are shaking, while the guard with the whip screams at us in German, then raises his arm and cracks his whip beside my left ear. Frozen with fear, I pee my pants. Yes, very un-heroic. Slowly, I walk backwards to escape the guard with the whip, thinking if I faced him, there would be lesser chance of being hit again. He doesn’t hit me again, thank God. We are out of the tunnel and now I worry how will I explain the wet pants to my mother. so I spend the rest of the afternoon walking and drying my pants in the sun and mother never learns what happened.

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The rest of the summer, I learn how to avoid the guards and am enthused with watching what appears to be thousands of American bombers, in groups of about twenty or more, fly overhead. One group, after another, fly for hours, to bomb German cities. The foreboding drone of their engines and continuous vapour trails tell where the calamity is to occur. Similarly in the darkness of night, more bombers fly overhead. This time, hundreds of searchlights pierce the darkness. When an unlucky plane is boxed in, the lights stay on it, so many of them are downed by relentless anti-aircraft fire.

 

It is Sunday in late summer of 1944; the factory buildings are unmanned. BR and I venture into places forbidden to us, but there are no guards, so in we go. The complex includes an iron smelter, situated somewhat out of the way. It lies next to a red brick wall surrounding the compound. Mounted on this wall are several large electrical receptacles and controls, of hard grey-blue plastic, a miniature rail system stretches alongside the wall. The rail car hoppers are “V” shaped, somewhat like what is found in small-scale mining. They are capable of tipping to discharge their loads. Insulated in some form, they are used to transport moulted iron between various buildings. I suspect that the receptacles on the wall are for the purpose of keeping the molten iron hot, by some electrical means. The receptacles are unused today. Oblivious to the danger I faced if the power was on in them, and using an iron bar, I proceed to smash them, rendering them useless. Damage done, we go back to our barrack not mentioning the deed to anyone.

 

It is Monday now. There is a level of commotion unseen before in the compound. Authorities are questioning people about the sabotage. It looks very grave. My parents do not suspect me, nor does anyone else. After all, I am only eight. I realize the seriousness of what I had done and keep quiet, and it works. Had I been discovered my entire family would have been wiped out that same day. I determine not to reveal this for the rest of my life, not even to my immediate family.

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In October, a single bomb falls through the roof of the guards’ mess hall. The roof is blown off, but the brick walls remain intact. Days later, I peek through a hole in the wall, with the sun illuminating the interior; I see blood spatter on the walls. I wonder if the whipper-guard was in there at the time. I never see him again.

 

I spend the remainder of 1944 and the early part of 1945 watching bombers fly overhead. Now the bombers are escorted by fighter planes. German fighters rise to engage them, and dogfights develop. Some are shot down; a few collide in mid-air. Sometimes I see parachutes and sometimes none. In cold weather, vapor trails cover the sky from horizon to horizon. An unbelievable sight.

 

It is April of 1945, my scrawny undernourished sixteen-year-old brother, is my protector, he works in the pipe-fittings plant. That place is run by Otto, a one-legged remnant from one of the fronts. He is vicious and takes it out on my brother. But the front is near us, workers’ spirits rise and there are no more German fighter planes challenging the American air flotillas. Soon units of the American Third Army enter Mettmann. Guards melt away. We are free.

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My brother finds an abandoned rifle and goes looking for Otto, who is no longer in the compound. He prepares to go looking for him in town to kill him, but mother intercedes and stops him, Otto will have to do his own “arbeit”, on one leg. The gate is open, Americans drive in with a truckload of foodstuffs and hand them out to us by the cartons. An American soldier who is of Polish descent, from Chicago, befriends us. He is enamoured with my oldest sister but stays in the compound only a few weeks. His unit is being moved to the Pacific. He promises to contact us after the Pacific campaign, but never does. I wonder if he made it.”

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Sponsored by his sister Bronisława Hulanicki, Czesław and his parents arrived at Pier 21, Halifax, Nova Scotia, on May 14, 1951.

 

Czeslaw graduated from H.B. Beal Technical & Commercial High School in 1956. In the Ontario-wide “1955 Industrial Arts Awards” contest, sponsored by Ford Motor Company of Dearborn, Michigan, Czeslaw was one of five London student winners, being awarded Fourth Prize for Achievement in Woodworking. He received certification in the Advanced Course in Carpentry, from the Ontario Department of Education, The Provincial Institute of Trades, on 19 February 1958.

 

Czeslaw married Krystyna Wira on 4 September 1965 in London, Ontario, and they raised three children: Mark, Andrew, and Robert.

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At Lambton College in Sarnia, he was placed on the President’s Honour List for 1983 in the Applied Arts & Technology program. He received a Diploma from the Piping Drafting program. On 1 April 1986, Czeslaw was certified as an Associate Member of The Association of Certified Engineering Technicians and Technologists.

 

Czeslaw was an inspector and consulting engineer for various companies in London, Ontario. He was also the owner and manufacturer of swimming pools for his company - Catalina Swimming Pools Inc.

 

Czeslaw was a longtime member of the Polish Combatants Association, Branch #2. He helped with the building of the Polish church and the SPK hall.

 

Czeslaw passed away on 15 May 2015 in London, Ontario, at the age of 79 years. He was buried in St. Peter's Cemetery.

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Copyright: Chwiecko family

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