Trochaniv is a small village in the Carpathian Mountains, some ten kilometres from the nearest railway station of Synowidzko. It is said that in the thirteenth century, when Genghis Khan's Mongolian Army overran Eastern Europe, three khans had an encampment where the present village is located. The name Trochaniv means three khans in Ukrainian. Some of the Mongolian soldiers stayed behind and married local girls and quite a few of the current villagers display Mongolian features, slanted eyes, very high cheekbones, tar black hair and swarthy complexions. Their surnames are not Slavonic, but oriental sounding, although all of them consider themselves to be Ukrainian.

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The village is in a valley about five kilometres long and three kilometres wide with a shimmering brook that meanders through the village. The brook flows into the River Stryj at Synowidzko. The mountains surrounding the valley reach a thousand meters and are overgrown at lower levels with beech trees, oak trees and hazelnut bushes. At the higher-level grow pines, spruce and some junipers. The mountain peaks are bare in summer but in the autumn and early winter are covered with deep snow. By January, strong winds arrive from the southern Hungarian plains, blowing all the snow off the peaks and into the valley, sometimes burying village houses to their very rooftops.

The village contains a large church and schoolhouse; both built from wood like all the houses in the village. I had been teaching in Trochaniv for eight months, since September of 1940, and loved it there. The air was fresh, and I often climbed the mountains in the late afternoon to admire the view with my girlfriend, Zabcia, who was also teaching in the school.

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We talked about our future, my studies, the children we would have. Spring had arrived with gusto and the hallway echoed with the lively footsteps of schoolchildren. My classroom was filled with papers, strings, frog’s eggs and a few precious books.

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One bright, sunny April morning, the principal entered my classroom and beckoned me to his office. There, he produced a letter from Russian Army High Command. An official letter. I had been called up for two years’ service in the Soviet Red Army. This news was most unwelcome; I did not want to leave my girlfriend, the beautiful village and the many friends and students for whom I cared. But on April 15th, 1941, I was to report to Skole, and bring with me a razor, a large mug and a spoon. The principal mentioned that six other young men from the village were being called up the same day and I was to look after them, he said, until we all reached Skole’s recruiting centre.

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Five brief days later, on a Tuesday morning, my twentieth birthday, I said a tearful goodbye to my adored girlfriend, Zabcia, and climbed into a horse-drawn cart, courtesy of the Village Committee’s Chairperson, with the other men. Our cart rolled away towards Synowidzko railway station where we took the train northwards to Skole, 25 kilometres away from my village, my Zabcia, the first home of my young heart.

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The seven of us reached Skole quickly and were there told to complete all kinds of forms at the army recruiting barracks. We were to list any relatives living abroad and their addresses, if known. New recruits arrived all day long and thirty men were gathered in the barracks before the afternoon was through. After lunch all of us were lined up to have our heads shaved. We were told to remove all our clothing and were marched to another room where four doctors and their assistants examined us briefly, mainly for venereal diseases. We then filled out more forms. When all the recruits had re-dressed, we were marched into a large room where a few officers sat on a raised platform. We stood and waited. After some moments, a senior politruk (Russian Army political officer) made his speech.

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“Welcome!  You are now proud members of the Soviet Army, where you have the privilege and immense honour of serving not only the motherland, but also Comrade Stalin. Your challenges ahead will be difficult at times but be assured that those you love will benefit from your courage, your strength and your valour in helping to create a powerful Soviet Army!”

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The room was deadly quiet; you could have heard a pin drop. After a long pause, one of the junior officers began clapping to fill the void. The remaining officers joined him, but we recruits showed no emotion; we just stood there, levelling our gaze at the Russian officers. Our country had been dissolved between the Russians and Germans; we had been removed from our homes and now we were being ordered to fight on behalf of a foreign country.

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In the kitchen that evening, each man received a round aluminum canteen and a wooden soup spoon. We were told to take good care of these items because they were state property. After supper, and being shown to our sleeping quarters, we were told we could go to town but must return before ten o’clock. I took advantage of the spare time and walked through Skole, thinking about my future, which appeared unpredictable and rather frightening. To what part of the Soviet Union would I be sent?  The Far East?  Siberia?  Archangel?  Kalyma?  Magadan? 

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These names had become familiar ever since the Russian authorities had begun deporting Galicia’s citizens to these gulags without cause. Two years in the Russian Army seemed like such a long time. I wondered what Zabcia was doing right now. I wondered if my father had received the letter I had sent him the week before and what he was thinking.

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After breakfast the next morning, a Lieutenant marched us to the railway station and we boarded a passenger train going a little north to Stryj, my hometown. We had an entire railway car to ourselves since, apparently, the Russian authorities did not want recruits and civilians exchanging information.

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In Stryj, we detrained, and the officer marched us to a nearby abandoned factory. I knew this factory – when I was young, we would dig for buried childhood treasure there, for nuts and bolts and bits of glass. I asked the officer if I could make a short visit, just for half an hour, to say goodbye to my father and six sisters. My home wasn’t far away. I hadn’t been there for over a year and longed to see everyone. The Officer refused and told me to return to the other men.

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“That’s an order. You’re in the army now, don’t forget,” he sternly declared, as if this was news to me. With a final gaze at my hometown railway station, the train got underway and took us onwards to nearby Lviv. The last thing I remember noticing were some flyers nailed to the station boards, flapping, tattered by the wind.

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That day, I watched train after train bring conscripts from what had formerly been eastern Poland to Lviv. Poland had ceased to exist after Russia’s invasion of 17 September 1939. Hundreds of men filled a designated platform. Military policemen surrounded its perimeter and many of us wondered if we were being protected or guarded.

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At lunchtime, an army field kitchen arrived, and a hot mash made of corn flour was ladled into each man’s mug. Everyone was given 500 grams of dark wheat bread and a few hours later, when a cattle train arrived, we were told to climb aboard; forty men were put into each car. Two bunk bed platforms were attached at each end to create four large wooden bunk beds. The middle of the car was empty. The two sliding doors facing the platform were open but the doors on the opposite side were locked. There were no mattresses, blankets or straw. The men climbed onto the bunks to claim their space, ten to each bunk, and we all started, very timidly, to exchange names with our neighbours and the names of the towns or villages from where we came. We rested on the beds. The train was not going anywhere.

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Another field kitchen pulled up to the train at six o’clock and we were given hot tea and a lump of sugar. At eight o’clock the guards shut the sliding doors on us, leaving us narrow slivers of light and ventilation through four small openings in each upper corner of the car. It must have been close to midnight when the train left Lwow. Men slept in their clothes except for their shoes; those with overcoats were the most comfortable. There were no toilet facilities. A couple of knotholes in the wagon’s sliding doors had to be used during the night, by the men, to urinate through.

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In the morning when everyone was awake and waiting for the train to stop, one of the men used the knothole and someone in the car yelled,“Hey, Wacek, be careful you don’t hit a telephone pole.” Everyone in the car burst out laughing, and suddenly everyone was talking and joking. The spirit of depression that had existed on the previous day disappeared. Everyone complained about the lice that had appeared during the night, some men disrobed and tried to catch the vermin.

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The train stopped at a small station, and we disembarked. The guards permitted us to walk over to the nearest field to relieve ourselves. One could tell that many people must have previously used this field as a latrine. It was not a pretty sight. I noticed that the Sergeant was reading the Russian newspaper, PRAVDA, so I approached him,

“Comrade Sergeant,” I asked, “would it be possible to have the last page of your newspaper?”

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“Oh yes?” the Sergeant looked up at me, flipped the paper over in his hands and then studied the last page. “Why did you want the last page?” he asked. “I’m needing some toilet paper, if you don’t mind,” I answered innocently. The Sergeant glared at me before shouting,“You want my newspaper?!  You want to wipe your ass with PRAVDA??  What are you, some kind of counterrevolutionary?!?  Get out of here!!”

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We all used the grass that was growing in the field but there wasn’t any water available for washing one’s hands. Afterwards, we were told to line up outside our respective train cars and the guards made a head count. The field kitchen arrived and everyone received tea, sugar and bread for breakfast. That was the morning routine throughout the train journey.

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After the men entrained, the boxcars started travelling eastwards again. The men talked and sang popular native songs and seemed to be more relaxed than they had been on the previous day. The sliding doors were open on one side, and we took turns sitting there with our legs outside. We were travelling through flat countryside, past villages. Occasionally we passed small forests, crossed bridges and rivers, but most often we travelled through farmland, with farmers working their fields. Everyone tried to guess where we were being taken, but no one knew, and the guards refused to tell us.

On the fifth day, the train arrived in Vinnitsa, a city south of Kyiv. I was relieved that we had travelled to the south, and not north towards Siberia. The guards told us to detrain and to line up in columns of four. They marched us to the centre of town where the public baths were located. Upon entering a large walled-in yard, we were told to disrobe and bundle up our clothes, tie them with a belt and leave the bundle on the ground. We were told that our clothes would be disinfected.

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Meanwhile, we were placed into line to wait for a turn to enter the shower. Following the person ahead of me, I entered the room and to my shocking embarrassment found myself in front of two young female nurses. For a moment, I wanted to turn back and leave the room, but the guards kept shouting, “Move on, move on!” and the people behind me kept pressing me onwards. I stepped forward and one of the nurses told me to lift my arms and the other one shaved all my pubic hair. The first nurse then doused all the shaved areas with a white disinfectant and told me to move on to the next room to take a shower. It was the most embarrassing moment of my young life.

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After the shower, the men found their clothes in the courtyard, still hot from the steam treatment. The steam was so hot that all the leather belts and buttons had cracked. The clothes were all creased and misshaped. The guards marched us back to the station and to the belongings that were left on the train. Once everyone was settled onto the bunk beds for the night the lice crawled out of their hiding places and greeted us with enthusiasm.

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The train travelled southeast, and the days grew somewhat warmer. As we approached Taganrog we entered orchard country. Cherry trees were in full bloom. It looked like the trees and the ground were covered in snow for miles around. It was, of course, just the blossoms creating a spectacular sight.

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We were disinfected again five days later near the town of Rostov. After Rostov, the train travelled south-southeast through steppe country. Fields of sunflowers and corn stretched for miles into the distance. As the train passed a village, children tried to catch up with the train, running alongside, waving. Someone threw a piece of bread towards them and all the men felt great dismay to see the children converge on the piece of bread and fight for their lives to snatch it from one another. We realized that the children had been begging, not waving to us in greeting at all.

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It was May 1st, 1941. After fourteen days, we had stopped travelling by train and had entered the city of Voroshylovsk (now Stavropol). Voroshylovsk is located north of the Caucasus mountains, in the Ordzhonokidzhe Land, halfway between the Black Sea and the Caspian Sea. It is a large flat city, green, grass-filled, on the steppe.

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All of us were marched from the railway station to the public baths for disinfecting. We were taken to some barracks belonging to a tank battalion and there, army uniforms were issued, and personal clothing was stored away in sacks. Rifles were issued, but not ammunition. Men were assigned to various companies and barracks, and a Sergeant led each company to its barrack where the men were told to select bunks.

Unfortunately, I picked an upper bunk in the middle of the room. Going to the bathroom at night required climbing up and scrambling down the boards. Some days later, after receiving a multi anti-infection injection under my left shoulder blade, the pain in my shoulder became unbelievable while climbing in and out of this space.

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Every army day started at six a.m. We assembled in the courtyard in our shorts and boots and performed aerobics for an hour. At seven o’clock we washed, shaved, dressed and made our beds to exact specifications. When the Sergeant didn’t approve of the result, the bedding was tossed to the floor and the poor soldier had to do it again and again until the Sergeant was satisfied. Washing was problematic with blocked bathroom drainage pipes forcing us to stand in the water and the toilet facilities were disgusting – they were built on the principle of gravity, that is, just a hole in a concrete floor. There was no toilet paper.

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By half-past seven the men again lined up in the yard with their shirts off and held out in front of them. The Company Commander and the political officer inspected every shirt, telling the group what a serious matter it would be to find a louse as that would require a direct report to Comrade Stalin. Although this was shared with a straight face, many of the men didn’t know if the officers were serious or joking. This little pantomime was performed daily, rain or shine, although the lice failed to make any appearances.

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Breakfast was at eight o’clock. The men marched to the dining room for soup, bread with jam and butter, and tea with a lump of sugar. Nine o’clock saw each company, under the direction of its own Sergeant, out in the yard, marching, stopping, turning in all directions and presenting arms. This continued until twelve o’clock when we were marched to the dining room for lunch. Initially, the food was quite decent. It consisted of potatoes, some meat, plenty of bread, some butter and Russian tea.

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Everything was on a schedule. Clocks ruled our lives. At one o’clock, technical classes were held on operating the stationary T-33 tank. We learned how to start and steer the tank engine, taking turns climbing in and out of the solitary tank. We learned how to signal the driver to change course, how to load the gun, how to aim and fire, and how to get in and out of the tank as quickly as possible. All of this training occurred without starting the engine, however, as there was no petrol in the tank so we practiced by steering a stationary object. The tank’s gun was never loaded as there was no ammunition. Despite this, we endeavoured to retain the nuances involved. Along the way, our company was supplied with Morse transmitting/receiving training equipment, and we were told to learn Morse code. We were to practise sending and receiving messages. The transmitters could not be operated, however, because the authorities didn’t supply batteries. Instead, the Company Commander told us to say, while keying the message, “dee…dee...dah…dah”, and so on.

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Although we never learned how Morse equipment could be used from within the T-33 tank, a political officer repeatedly stated that Russian engineers had improved the Ford engine’s performance. The American engine had pistons with a flat top surface, but Russian engineers had made the piston surface concave thereby increasing the engine’s power. He never mentioned, and we never experienced, how much more power the Russian engine produced.

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At five o’clock in the evening the group marched back to the dining room for noodle or cabbage soup supper, with a bit of meat thrown in. Some bread and tea rounded it off. At six o’clock we marched to the barracks and had either two hours of political indoctrination from a company political officer or two hours’ practice taking apart and putting back together a rifle and light machine gun. Two hours of leisure time were given to us between eight and ten for reading, talking, or writing letters. None of us were allowed to sit by or near the beds. We were to sit on wooden benches and wait for ten o’clock to arrive before we could lie down and go to sleep. It was the longest two hours of the day.

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There was little to distinguish between one day and the next at Vorooshylovsk except that every Sunday an officer approached me and asked to borrow my watch. Apparently, my cheap wristwatch appeared to be the only wristwatch in the battalion. The officers would go to town and have a photo taken for their wives or sweethearts. They would stand with their left arm flexed at the elbow and held up to their chest, sleeve rolled up, proudly showing off my watch on their wrist.

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One Sunday, in the second week of June, I visited Itzek Lowental, a Jewish friend in another company. Itzek came from Boryslav, sixty kilometres from Stryj. We enjoyed each other’s company and discussed current events in Europe. On this day, Itzek told me that, according to a letter he had received from his parents in Boryslaw, Germany would be attacking Russia within two weeks.

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“Impossible!” I cried, “I don’t believe it!” We had both witnessed the steady flow of Russian trains headed west towards Germany, trains filled with oil, grain and livestock. “And, anyway,” I reminded him, “Germany and Russia have a non-aggression agreement.”

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“Alright, then, Roman – you believe what you like, and I’ll bet you half a pound of cookies that the Germans will attack Russia within two weeks.”

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Two weeks later, Sunday, 22 June 1941, after a morning parade, I visited Itzek to collect on the cookie wager. It was around eleven o’clock and Itzek admitted that he had lost the bet. As we were walking towards the canteen the loudspeakers started crackling and suddenly an announcement was made for all personnel to return to their quarters on the double. Itzek and I parted company and arranged to meet in the afternoon.

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When I returned to my company, the Company Commander and political officer were lining up men in the yard. No one knew what was happening, but a general commotion was astir. Machine guns had been placed on the barrack roofs in each corner. Crews of soldiers were stationed alongside them. Were the soldiers there to protect us or to intimidate us? Everyone was apprehensive.

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At approximately twelve o’clock, the loudspeakers crackled again before Molotov himself, the Commissar of Foreign Affairs of the USSR, announced that on the previous night, German forces had attacked the Soviet Union who, in response, had inflicted heavy casualties on the Germans. As a result, and for strategic reasons, the Red Army had withdrawn eastwards one hundred kilometres. That afternoon I gave Itzek half a pound of cookies.

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Copyright: Jenny Skulski

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