Janina was a university student when Hitler and Stalin invaded Poland in 1939. Her hometown suffered German bombings and occupation by the USSR, even as she and her family aided refugees. “Janka” joined the underground with friends, but in 1940 she was arrested by the NKVD, tortured and shipped to the Gulag. Her entire family would be deported to Siberia, and many relatives and friends suffered and died at the hands of the Soviets and Nazis. Janina’s award-winning memoir chronicles her amazing odyssey, starting with the invasion of Poland, as a prisoner in the outposts of the Gulag, her survival in the USSR and escape, and finally exile in India and England. Through all her trials, Janka was determined to find her scattered family and friends, and to tell the story of those whose voices had been silenced. Janina died in 1997.

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The following is an excerpt from Janina Sulkowska’s book Wartime Memoirs, 1939-1949, published in Warsaw in 1998, and translated by her son Chris Gladun.

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The last days of February were unusually warm. We were marching back after a day’s work where my brigade had exceeded the quota. I was happy I’d receive portions from the first kettle. And tomorrow was a rare “free” day where inspection would take place, and we could sleep longer, do laundry or visit each other. I then recalled the prophecy of Moses and realized that it was the end of February, and I was still in prison. So much for her prediction of being released that month.

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Settled in my bunk, I was roused by a soft voice: “Jana, you’re going to your freedom.” It was the Russian secretary from the office, the same one with whom I had pleaded about not being released. Was I dreaming? Was this a cruel joke? But the booming voice of Zylin, now demoted to a senior guard, confirmed that it wasn’t a lie: “Jana, go to Ola and tell her you’re going to freedom. Turn in your prison clothes and report to the baths.”

On March 1, 1942, I walked out of Punishment Camp Number 6, a free woman at last. It was almost exactly two years ago that the NKVD had come to arrest me at my family home in Krzemieniec. I was leaving one chapter and moving on to the next in an adventure that was far from complete–without knowing if my family was alive or dead.

Accompanying me were the “jokers” Baranowski and Czarnokonski, released from solitary, and two Russian thieves. I was overjoyed at my liberation, but I also realized that my source of prison food, meager as it was, had been eliminated. Luckily, I had Soviet-made boots which I’d bought for bread while working in the kitchen–otherwise I’d be negotiating snowy freedom in my bare feet. The rest of my attire included my old coat with the burned-out hole, a warm hat, and one woolen mitt.

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We travelled by rail to a central point in Dry-Without-Water where I met a Polish mother and daughter whom I’d known in Camp No. 2, and who had also been released that day. Here I also befriended Maniuta Nowakowska who’d arrived from another camp, and who theorized that her late release was because she was born in Berlin. Perhaps that my birthplace was in Russia similarly accounted for my 6-month extension, after most of the surviving Poles had been released. Maniuta and I decided to team up.

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Our group had identification photographs taken by a former reporter from Lwów who even made us extra copies. Maniuta and I decided to travel south to Buzuluk, the headquarters of the new Polish Army in the USSR. We’d follow the path of thousands of Poles–men, women and children–who were determined to join the army or seek its protection. The way was full of hardships and death. The mother and daughter opted to stay in Dry-Without-Water as “free” citizens and set up a tailoring business at which they had excelled in prison. Baranowski and Czarnokonski set out without any destination in mind–shouting from the train that we’d all meet in the Polish Army!

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Maniuta and I got as far as Gorky, and there we got stuck. The trains were full of soldiers heading for the front against the Germans who were pushing into Russia, and civilians were out of luck. The station was crowded and the town under a black-out–and we had little food. Despair was gripping us, when I beheld a poster with familiar writing…it took me several seconds to realize I was reading Polish! It gave directions to the local Polish Delegature, set up to aid Poles. At the Delegature we were warmly greeted and given a bath and a meal. But we learned that the Polish Army wasn’t taking any more people, and even worse we didn’t have Soviet permission to stay in Gorky. We were directed to a small village near Gorky and advised to remain there until opportunities arose. The Delegature promised to keep in touch.

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Some news that lifted my spirits was that Jakub Hoffman was alive, having been released by the Soviets in Gorky in January, and was now with the Polish Embassy in Kuybishev. General Sikorski, the Polish Prime Minister and Commander in Chief, and Stanislaw Kot, Ambassador to the USSR, had intervened on his behalf with Stalin himself. For the second time he put on the uniform of a Polish Captain and would be appointed as Embassy representative in Uzbekistan. I made an appeal to him at once, for help in joining the Polish Army and getting out us of our predicament here. The USSR was doing much to hamper Poles trying to get to the army. Jews and Ukrainians from Poland were being classified as Soviet citizens to keep them out of the Polish army and to create dissension.

 

A Funeral                   

I was all set to leave my little "hut beyond the village"--even planning a farewell party for

the next day, after which I would leave in the night. But Waria's sick daughter took a turn

for the worse. Every breath seemed to be her last and was accompanied by horrible

wheezing, which reduced her mother to screaming fits. I ran to the village to fetch Gabryela, a Pole, who was known for her nursing abilities. She could only tell me that it would be better if the severely underdeveloped baby would not make it. Tamarka died that evening.

I postponed my departure and gave Waria some sedative herbs, but she refused to sleep in the same hut with her dead child--we both spent the night outside. At least Waria was confident her child would go to heaven as she'd been secretly christened before her death. Religion had long been banned in the USSR, and the local Russian Orthodox priest or "Pop" had been executed (my sister later told me of priests being crucified and left hanging!). But his religious functions were taken over by a local female "Popadia" who maintained a secret church. Religion remained in the Russian heart and soul.

 

 

To Gorky and Gifts from the USA

The first business I had in Gorky was an appointment with a hairdresser. I was flattered that the Polish Delegature was concerned about me, but this had had more to do with parasites infesting my hair and scalp, than my neglected looks. Here I was also reunited with Maniuta. A Polish official took me to an upstairs warehouse, packed to the ceiling with clothing. Among the mountains of blankets and clothing were gowns, fur coats, and high-heel shoes! These were American gifts from the Red Cross and Jewish organizations, sent in great amounts to the USSR for Polish refugees (much of which would be stolen by the Soviets). I shook my head at these impractical "bourgeois" fashions, but soon I was trying on Florsheim Shoes of Genuine Lizard and a Maiden Form Bra--and trying to understand the lives of the women who'd donated their clothes. Finally, I chose a beige skirt, a purple jacket, comfortable shoes, undergarments...and a bathing suit. Later in a pocket, I discovered a ticket from a movie theatre in Buffalo, New York, which conjured up images of innocence and laughter in my eyes which had seen so much pain and suffering.

I felt like a movie star as I sauntered down the streets of Gorky, with its shoeless peasant girls and unwashed soldiers who stared at this decadent lady. I returned to the Delegature where I was shown an urgent cable from the Polish Embassy searching for Stefan Czarnocki, released from a labour camp, and last seen getting off the train in Gorky. But he never returned to continue his trip--and I would search for him, but he never would be found. I was given papers and money for the long trip to Guzar and spent a pleasant evening with friends during which I was complimented that I was beginning to look like my own daughter! The woman then retired to sleep in the hospital quarters.

 

Next morning Waria went to the factory for a coffin, while I prepared Tamara for the funeral. I washed her emaciated body and sewed a little hat and dress from rags. Waria created a horrible scene, cursing the Soviet regime for the death of her child and her wounded husband. They finally gave her a shipping box for a coffin. We laid Tamara on a bed of straw and flowers picked by local Russian girls. The Latvian women sang as we set off with young girls carrying the coffin. On the outskirts of the village a grave had been dug by an old Pole and a crippled Latvian. We said a prayer and buried Tamara. Then we returned to my hut for a feast prepared by the women, which was both a wake for Tamara, and a farewell party for me. Around ten that night the women accompanied me to the outskirts where they hugged and kissed me. Tears flowing down my cheek, I set out for the Polish Army with all my worldly possession tied up in a piece of cloth.

 

The NKVD turned the place upside-down and sealed the doors of the office and warehouse, before leaving. The Soviet government had withdrawn diplomatic status from Polish organizations and staff, closing embassies and making arrests.  I decided to leave immediately to warn the Polish government in Kuybyshev, which along with the Soviet government had been evacuated as German forces neared Moscow. Maniuta and a small group saw me off at the station--and they would be arrested shortly.

In Kuybyshev I notified the embassy about the situation in Gorky, and learned of similar raids. Poles across the USSR were being prevented from reaching the army, including Polish children who were escaping from Soviet orphanages and schools where they were being molded into Soviet citizens. Poles of Ukrainian, Jewish or Byelorussian background were automatically declared Soviet citizens, and refused entry into the Polish Army.

 

At midnight banging on the door and a woman's voice in Polish: "It's us from Kirov!" We

opened the gate as clothing and food was expected from Kirov--and four male figures pushed their way in. The NKVD! We were assembled in the dining area as our personal papers were torn apart--I was positive they were searching for me.

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My Family is Alive!          

While at the embassy, I submitted the names of Poles I had met in the Gulag, including those that had perished. I also searched the official list of survivors for the names of family and friends. Was it a futile hope? But my mother and sister were among those alive! They were in Kazakhstan living in squalid conditions, and were hoping to join the Polish Army, which my brother Czeslaw had already done. I was beside myself with joy. And then a man from Bukhara mentioned the name of patient he knew at a hospital in Bukhara. That name was Jan Sulkowski, my father! I immediately made plans to be reunited with him.

 

Colonel Rudnicki issued me bread, lard, and Bovril for the long trip ahead. And then I had my first "meal" in several years: juicy cutlets served in fine china on a white tablecloth! I had difficulty handling the fine cutlery and maintaining decorum--but the meal was out of this world. I was ordered to stop in Bukhara and personally warn the Polish delegates to immediately head for the Polish Army.

 

 

Bukhara...and My Father!     

Bukhara was in a heat wave as I passed on the order to close the embassy, and for the staff to head for the Polish Army. I also met an orderly at the invalid hospital who confirmed that my father was a patient there. In fact, they had become friendly, and he described how my father despaired that I had perished in jail or the concentration camps.

 

A plan was drawn up on how to prepare Jan Sulkowski for the unexpected arrival of his eldest daughter. I remained in the office while the orderly told my father he had heard something about me at the embassy. My father harkened to the news. The orderly then came around with news that a letter had arrived at the hospital from his daughter. My father wanted to read it, and the orderly went to fetch it--but came back to announce that a visitor had just arrived. My father was sitting in a big chair wearing a bathrobe and playing solitaire when I entered the ward. He looked very sick. It took several seconds for both of us to admit to our senses what our eyes beheld. My father jumped up, sending the cards flying, and hugged me. We had so much to talk about.

 

He took me on a tour of the hospital to meet the friends he had made. The hospital was full of chronically ill patients including children who had barely survived Soviet genocide: skeletons with suffering eyes unable to cry, teenagers rolled up into fetal positions, and other sights that tore at my heart. The mortality rate was very high. I made a promise that I would dedicate myself to helping these children. I bade farewell to my father with the hope our family would become one again and set out for the Army.

 

 

The Polish Army              

In Guzar the Polish recruiting board issued me a uniform and sent me to a camp at Shakhrisabz where I reported to a high official named Jakub Hoffman. I was also reunited with Wanda Krawczak, and there were stories and tears all around.

 

Our underground group knew little of Kuba's fate--only that he and his family had been taken during the first deportation in February 1940. And then we lost track of each other and didn't know who was dead and who was alive. The Hoffman’s were transported by cattle car to Gorky Oblast and used as forced labor in cutting forests and building a railroad to Kotlas. His son perished in exile. And then in July of 1941 Kuba was arrested by the NKVD and subjected to eight months of interrogations but was released to serve the Polish government. It was still a mystery how our underground group had been smashed by the NKVD--it must have been someone close to both of us.

 

Death was a common visitor to the Polish camp. Every day there would be fresh bodies to bury--including children who succumb to years of starvation and disease. There was a makeshift hospital with doctors, but little could be done. Polish graveyards sprang up at every camp along the route to the Polish Army with such markers as: "Janek--8 years old" or "Marysia—age unknown." After a week we began to get ready for evacuation to Persia.

 

On an August night we marched out of camp for the rail station with a double load in our

knapsacks--two sets of uniforms, and things we didn't want to leave for the despised Soviets. Morning found us at Kitab where Polish soldiers were supervising the loading. The children were ecstatic to see a soldier in a Polish uniform and speaking Polish! I noticed a familiar face under an officer's cap--and called out his nickname "Tiutka." And indeed, it was Leon Gladun! He had survived the mass executions at Katyn and was now in the Polish Army heading for Persia to join the British. We only talked for a few minutes, not knowing if we'd meet again (and it would be years later on my wedding day, that I would share the prophecy of Moses with my new husband--Leon Gladun). Our train rolled through Kagan, Samark, and Askhbad--to Krasnowodsk on the Caspian Sea.

 

In Shakhrisabz, my home was a tent under an arch built by Tamerlane. Every noon a Polish trumpeter played the famous Polish heynal--just like from the tower of the Mariacki Church in Krakow. And he always broke off at the note when, according to legend, a Tartar arrow pierced his throat. It was a sound that stirred the Polish soul in this distant land.

 

 

Krasnovodsk and Escape from the USSR  

A sandstorm greeted us at Krasnowodsk which resembled Hell. The Kara-Kum desert broiled us in the train, as refineries belched flames and fumes, and the Caspian Sea shimmered with oil spills--and human corpses. An occasional ship wandered into port with wounded Soviet soldiers from the Caucaus Front.

 

Poles were camped all along the tracks. Everywhere there were starving Polish mothers and children, many lying in makeshift beds awaiting death. The only food available were inadequate rations allotted to the Polish Army, who shared them with civilians. And the local population was not much better off than the refugees.

 

A woman was dehydrated, but there was no drinking water. There was only cheap wine, and we managed to buy a bottle from a vendor on the beach. We poured a cup for the ailing woman and gently brought it to her parched lips. She gagged at the first sip! The wine had turned into vinegar. We had to leave the poor woman.

 

The evacuations from the USSR to Persia consisted of two phases: one in April 1942 and the second in August, which I was part of. The total number of people transported to Persia was 116,000, of whom 20,000 were children and teenagers. General Anders gave specific orders that all the children be included--even if they had to be carried aboard. Military personnel accounted for some 76,000 people. Still, this was only a fraction of the people who had been deported from Poland.

 

A small train took people to the port while others walked. The Soviets supplied tankers and freighters with names like Stalin, Beria and Molotov. At the gangplank the NKVD checked papers. Those not on the list had to remain in this hell--a push from a Soviet soldier would send the victim sobbing down the plank with their little bundle. In some cases, people were stricken off the list while families might be split apart. It was like Judgement Day--except that the evil ones were judging the innocent ones. Thankfully,   my papers were in order.

 

We were loaded like sardines in a tin (some ships had 5,000 passengers) and set off across the Caspian Sea for Persia...and British protection. The passengers were mostly women and children, but there was a contingent of Polish soldiers. The ship rolled and heaved with resulting seasickness and diarrhea, compounded by overcrowding, and poor health of the passengers. Those that died were thrown overboard. In one case a nursing mother lost her grip--and her baby tumbled into the sea. The ship couldn't stop.

 

 

Persia - From Hell to Heaven!  

Morning greeted us to a new world at Pahlevi. The water and sky were calm and blue--the sun no longer a blazing furnace. From our anchorage a mile offshore, we beheld sparkling beaches and a city of white tents and buildings. Excitement swept the ship as people cried and hugged. Small supply boats with fruit and vegetables (treasures to us!) sailed along-
side our filthy ship. Then the Poles, some crawling or carried, were taken ashore. English soldiers in uniforms and white gloves, like waiters, appeared on the dazzling beach to offer us orange juice on silver trays. Smiling, they directed us toward the baths, fresh clothing and haircuts while doctors and nurses in clean smocks gathered up the sick. Polish refugees who had arrived earlier frolicked on the beach. Everywhere there was food--and laughter. We had gone from hell to heaven!

 

Along the beach stretched a city of tents, borrowed from the Iranians for the Polish army,

side by side with palm huts for civilians. Eventually 200 British and 2,000 Persian tents

would be utilized--and people still lived in the open. The refugee complex covered several

miles on either side of the harbor, and housed Polish refugees who had arrived in March and April. Ships full of Polish refugees had been arriving day and night, and the facilities ran 24 hours a day. The Polish and British authorities were well-organized and understanding. Involved in our care was the Red Cross and other religious and charitable organizations.

 

Persia, or Iran as it would be called, was divided into two spheres: the Anglo-American

and the Soviet. The USSR led by Joseph Stalin, was no better than Nazi Germany...but

now they were our "allies." The British and certainly the Polish authorities, walked a

fine line in this regard. This was now my home. Here the Persians would sell you eggs,

fruit, souvenirs...and a few would steal your blankets.

 

 

Old Friends...and Typhoid Fever  

Shortly after arrival, Leon Gladun, whom I had seen in Krasnowodsk, came to visit
me with wine and several pounds of halvah, that sweet delicacy. He had arrived on
August 26 aboard the Marx, with 575 soldiers and 507 civilians--one of the more
spacious passages. Leon was overjoyed to leave "paradise" behind, as Poles referred
to the USSR with bitter sarcasm. He had been here for less than a week, and in a week
he was bound for Iraq and training with the British as part of the Polish Second Corps
under General Anders. His intention was to gorge himself on food and swimming--and

he was sticking to his regimen. Very quickly he was returning to the athletic figure that

I knew from the sports fields of Krzemieniec High School. With Lilka Zurawska who had

 been in the Polish army for half a year, the three of us went to a little beach café. I should

 have been happy and talkative, but I found myself glum and nauseous. Both the wine and the conversation seemed sour. My companions hoped it wasn't the first signs of malaria...

hundreds had already perished.

 

The next few days my fever increased--surely it was malaria. I was reduced to tossing and turning on an army bed, where one morning a voice informed me that my father had just arrived on the very last ship leaving the USSR. He had been evacuated with an orphanage and was now among the personnel of the Children's Colony here. It was good news.

 

Despite my feverish state, I decided that I would be better utilized among these children than in the army, which I disliked. After all I was a teacher and not a soldier. I insisted on going to see Jakub Hoffman who informed me that he had resigned his army position and was joining the Ministry of Labor and Welfare, to devote himself to educational and social work. He was taking Polish orphans to a new life in Africa. This confirmed my choice: the army accepted my resignation.

 

I immediately transferred to the civilian camp where I found a bed in the sand in a

semi-hallucinatory state. I then went in search of my father at the Children's Colony.

In the barracks, as part of the personnel taking care of 400 orphaned and sick children,

I found him alive--but very weak. He was reading a newspaper surrounded by his beloved

children. We collapsed in each other's arms, while an unspoken thought passed between us that we couldn't allow ourselves to die...for the sake of Natalia and Wanda still in the USSR. He had arrived with his orphans from Bukhara aboard the Zhdanov, the final ship which left the USSR, overcrowded with 5,130 people. For hundreds of thousands of remaining Poles, it meant imprisonment in the Soviet Union.

I was taken to an area for victims of malaria, where I was put into bed with just a prayer

for treatment. Medical care was stretched to the limit with not enough doctors or medicine.

The Polish graveyard was winning the battle. But Marzenka Piatkowska, my old Gulag

companion, arrived at my bedside bearing quinine for my condition. She too had just made it across the Caspian Sea as a member of the Polish Army. Once more her uncompromising character urged me on. Marzenka stayed by my side as I descended into cramps, fever and hallucinations. Slowly I slipped into semi-consciousness and was taken to the main hospital. Here there were some 820 beds--and this was proving inadequate. And then it was discovered that I was suffering not from malaria, but from typhoid fever. I was disinfected and my head was shaved.

 

A soldier came to help me turn in my possessions. We felt something familiar despite our appearance: me sickly, and he in a uniform. It was Antoni Hermaszeswszki! The very one who helped me take my underground oath so long ago in Poland. He ordered me to get better so we could have a reunion. Death hovered near me...but the vigil of my father and friends, and wine, the only medicine available, pulled me through. I began my recovery by trying to walk from bed to bed. I set out on little expeditions along the seashore escorted by my father and friends.

 

My appetite returned just as Antoni showed up as with some wonderful fish caught in the Caspian Sea by him and cooked by him. The taste of that meal convinced me I was on the way to recovery. He brought me up to date on all the events that took place following our mass arrests. I listened tearfully to the litany of friends who had survived, and of those who had nit. I was transferred to the hospital in Teheran where Lusia Madalinska, my mother's half-sister, visited me. I was sure that she must have perished in the harsh labour camps of Archangel where few survived. And then the prediction of Moses, so long-ago and far away, floated into my mind, about "traveling to where there are few women and many men, and being sick here once more." And so here I was in the Polish Army full of men--and having survived typhoid fever!

 

 

Polish Orphans              

I recuperated with my father in Civilian Camp No.1 in Teheran. There were four such camps with several thousand Poles. I started to teach elementary classes in the orphanage school equipped with a copy of "With Fire and Sword" by Henryk Sienkiewicz. The children, many of them orphans, were eager to learn and even tried to teach themselves under palm trees amid ancient ruins, with a newspaper or a letter that survived a trek of thousands of miles. I was still recuperating from typhoid and my head was shaved, which fitted in with the many of the children who also suffered the same humiliation.

The British made efforts to find homes for the children and for adults not in the army, but only those with family serving in the Polish Forces in England would be allowed entry there. The United States, Canada and several South American countries were hostile or else put up conditions which were tantamount to a refusal. Kenya, Uganda, Tanganyika and Nyasaland allowed some refugees on temporary settlement. India agreed to take 11,000 children, and Mexico accepted several thousand Poles on condition that they work in agriculture. Eventually many Polish children would make it to the United States, Canada, New Zealand and Australia where they became citizens and parents.     

About 74,000 Polish troops and 41,000 civilians were brought out of the USSR through Persia. But those were the lucky few. Of the estimated 2 million Poles deported into the USSR, about half perished, while hundreds of thousands remained in the prisons, labour camps and collective farms. And the deportations of Poles by the Soviets would resume in 1944-45 and continue under Stalin after the war ended. The United States and England turned a blind eye to the genocide being carried out against the Poles and others--and some would accuse them of complicity in war crimes, such as the forced return of people to the Soviets. Contrary to Allied propaganda, totalitarian murder did not end with the defeat of Hitler--it merely consolidated Stalin's reign of terror.​​​​​

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