I was born on 2 September 1919, in Lwów. We lived on Kasper Koczkowski Street, and I began my schooling in the elementary public school on Father Kordecki Street. Later I attended a high school with special emphasis on mathematics and the sciences. These were the most beautiful years of my youth. I was a fan of the soccer teams Pogori and Czami, and took a keen interest in car racing, organized in Lwów on a grand European scale. I knew the looks, the makes, the top speed of all car makes. That kind of trivia were what really mattered to me then. And now, from the distance of years, I wonder why, in the sixth, seventh, or eighth grade, when the ominous clouds were gathering all over Europe, I never heard from my teachers or from other adults around me that a storm of catastrophic proportions was heading our way. Maybe I was just not listening. In any case, the outbreak of the war and the tragedies that followed took me largely by surprise.

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Having passed my matriculation exam in 1938, I volunteered—as was the custom—to work for a period of one month for the good of the nation. We were sent to build roads in the environs of Luck, in Wolyn. After this exertion, I holidayed for a month before joining the Youth Labour Corps. Then I faced a choice: I could either go to university or join the army. I chose the latter, hoping that a year of military training would open for me the doors to other careers. That a war might close never occurred to me then.

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I signed up for the Officer Cadet Artillery College in Włodzimierz, the school of choice for many graduates of my high school. Our military instructors taught us the art of war, but even they never openly spoke of the threat of war. And yet the signs of impending trouble were plain to see. Hitler had annexed Austria, Czechoslovakia was reduced, Zaolzie was aflame. Perhaps our instructors were afraid the talk of war would distract us from our studies. Or perhaps they failed to realize the seriousness of the situation. In early spring, general mobilization was briefly announced but soon, in May, it was revoked.

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My cadet college went on man oeuvres. In Rembertów near Warsaw, we were assigned to various infantry units, which then engaged in joint exercises with the other services. An English general by the name of Ironside was an outside observer of our war games. Afterwards, I was sent to the 5th Light Artillery Regiment in Lwów and was stationed there until the outbreak of the war. We slept in the barracks, rose early for morning exercises, and did the various soldierly chores—all of this to give us, the officer cadets, a better insight into the daily routines and challenges in the life of ordinary soldiers, whom we were learning to lead and command. I was still in Lwów when the war broke out.

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The command must have had enough officers in the line units, because they left us in the barracks. I was at the other end of town, near the Central Train Station, when it was announced through the radio that Germany had attacked Poland. I immediately decided to return to the barracks. Along the way, I could see people stopping in the streets to comment on this development, not quite sure what it meant for them. They soon discovered, when several German bombers appeared above the city and the first explosions shook the ground. A woman I vaguely knew was killed by one of them. The citizens of Lwów quickly realized that this war meant nothing good for them.

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The news reached us of Germans advancing very quickly across the Polish territory. My unit was engaged in the preparations for the defense of Lwów, but before the Germans could reach us, the Soviets swooped on the city and took it on September 20. I am trying to remember my first encounter with the Bolsheviks. We were held unarmed in the barracks of the 6th Anti-aircraft Regiment on Palatyńska Street.

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Soviet soldiers entered the barracks. They looked slovenly and disheveled, not at all like conquerors. And yet they took us prisoner. We were ordered to go outside and line up along the street. I happened to stand beside the gate of one of the tenement houses. Things did not look good, so at first opportunity, I slipped inside the gate, where some good people helped me to change into civilian clothes. I stayed in hiding for a while, and when the Soviets were no longer in sight, I shrank my neck into the high collar of my jacket and started home.

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I walked through the city for close to an hour and no one tried to stop me. I was spared Soviet captivity, at least for the time being. My life took a turn for the worse when the Soviet authorities announced general conscription. It was preceded by a referendum in which all citizens of Lwów “voted” whether to ask Stalin to protect them from all the unpleasant things that were happening in the world, or, in other words, whether we wanted to be annexed to the Soviet Union or not. Participation in the referendum was—in the tradition of Soviet democracy—compulsory. What would happen if someone voted against annexation? Probably nothing, but most of the people I knew simply did not fill out their ballots. Based on this referendum—according to the Soviet authorities ninety-nine percent of voters opted for the annexation—we all became Soviet citizens. Shortly afterwards, the regional commander issued a conscription decree stating that all young men born in 1919 were called up to serve in the Red Army. Those conscripts whose last names began with letter “w” were ordered to report in mid-December. I could not imagine myself in a Soviet uniform, so, with a small group of like-minded men, we decided to escape to Hungary. We had heard that Polish units were being formed there and sent over to France to fight the Nazis.

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We quickly put that decision into action and took a train to Stryj, near the Hungarian border. Each of us boarded a different car to avoid creating an impression that we were an organized group. Despite the various precautions we took, I constantly had the impression that everyone was looking at me and knew where I was going and why. We arrived at Stryj late in the evening, and, because strangers in that town were very conspicuous, we set out into the mountains that same night. The way up was quite easy, and we saw no sign of being in the border zone. But our guide, a scoundrel if ever was one, led us straight to the Soviet watchtower. He was clearly working for them, but he did take our money, of course.

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They caught us all before dawn and we found ourselves behind barbed wire in Skole. My dream of escape to the free world burst like a soap bubble. Skole was a small town known mostly for its winter sports. The Soviets made it into a transition camp for those captured crossing the border. Our numbers grew by twenty to thirty a day during the two weeks I was kept there. My mother learned somehow of my plight and sent me a small food package, some buns or bread, if I remember properly. The contents of the package were thoroughly inspected and the bread cut up into small pieces to make sure that no instrument was smuggled inside that could harm the great Soviet Union.

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After two weeks, we were sent by rail via Lwów to Krasnowodsk, and then further to Dnepropetrovsk. There I sat in the can, without a trial or sentence, for eight months, awaiting the outcome of the “investigation.” That “investigation” consisted in trying to convince me to admit to the worst crimes and to sign my name to whatever the twisted imagination of the investigating officer had dreamt up. Signing such a document usually ended the investigation. Fortunately for me, I was never beaten during the interviews, perhaps because I looked very young for my age. Even though I had already served in the army, I still did not need to shave, and they must not have taken me very seriously. I came up with a story that I was going to Hungary to continue my education there since most schools in southeastern Poland were closed, and I stuck to that story for a while.

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Eventually the Soviets announced that we were all guilty of violating paragraph 84/14 pertaining to illegal border crossing. I got a lenient sentence of five years, while most of my friends got ten for the same crime. From the moment those sentences were announced, prison authorities began to show us more respect: we became incarcerated “citizens,” with some civil rights, including the right to larger portions of soup and sugar.

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Two weeks after the sentencing, we were sent up north, via Moscow, near the Peczora River, where we spent a year, until the fall of 1941, building a railway track to the White Sea. It was perhaps the hardest year in my life, and I still wonder how I managed to survive. Perhaps because I never met my work quota. Those who worked harder quickly lost their health, and often their life, too; only the men from Trans-Carpathian Russia seemed to be unaffected by the exertion required to meet the required daily norm. As for myself, I swung the shovel as little as possible, enough to keep me warm but not enough to drain my energy. My inefficiency was not, of course, without consequence. Every morning the foreman sang into my ear: “Tadeush Piotrovich trista gram” (Tadeush Priotrovich 300 grams), the smallest ration of bread.

We had little outside news in the camp, but eventually we learned about Hitler’s declaration of war against the Soviets, about the German invasion of the Soviet territories, and about the talks between the Polish and Soviet governments.

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At last, a ray of hope. Then one day the camp commander gathered us all and announced, “And now we are all going to kick the ass of our common fascist enemy. We are friends now.” Shortly afterwards, a military commission came to the camp, and each of us was asked if he wanted to go to the Polish or the Soviet army. A majority chose the Polish. We got some money, the right to move freely, and the permission to buy food for the road. About 300 of us boarded a train, and many others joined us along the way.

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When we finally reached Kermine, a rallying point for the Polish army, we were told that they were sorry, but they had too many people arriving daily and could not register us at the time. Instead, we were sent in barges along the Amu Darya River to work in a kolkhoz picking cotton. The locals were quite friendly towards us, and the kolkhoz administrator even asked us if our bellies were full or empty. Some time later, they took us back to Kermine, dressed us in uniforms, and, after two weeks, just before Easter 1942, shipped us to Pahlavi.

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It is difficult to describe our joy at escaping the Soviet Union. We were bathed and freshly clothed and given white bread to eat! These simple things were almost as exotic to us as figs and dactyls and the very notion of Persia. I had read about that country in my geography and history textbooks, never dreaming that I would ever see it with my own eyes. Every day brought new, exciting experiences. Certainly not the least of them was the ride across the mountains to Palestine, where the Carpathian Brigade was already taking shape. Our trucks, driven by Persians, groaned with exertion and squealed with terror on the twisting mountainous roads, but never lost contact with the beaten track. I sighed with relief when we finally descended towards the fields of undulating wheat, fragrant orchards, Jewish kibbutzes, and Arab villages. I was spellbound by the abundance and richness and freedom that seemed to me almost out of this world.

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In Palestine, I was assigned to the 2nd Light Artillery Regiment in the rank of corporal officer cadet because of my year in the officer cadet college. I spent most of my time moving between Palestine and Iraq, polishing my already decent knowledge of the art of war. By the time we left for Italy, I had earned the rank of 2nd Lieutenant.

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We landed in Taranto, Italy, on 24 December 1943, but hardly anyone noticed that it was Christmas. I have read many beautiful accounts of how people melted into tears at Christmastime with memories of happier days, but most of my colleagues and I experienced nothing of the kind. We were soldiers and had a bloody job to do; there was no time for sentiment. We moved to a new site, and barely had time to set up camp before the command ordered us to the front line on the Sangro River.

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We took our positions deep in the valley. We could see German patrols up on the mountains, peering at us through binoculars. When they got close enough, we shot at them, not to achieve any strategic objectives but to get some front-line experience. In late March or early April, we moved to battle positions at Monte Cassino. Our guns were well camouflaged, but the monastery stood before us in plain view. When I visited the site many years later, I could easily find the firing position where the battery I commanded had been located.

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From the actual assault, I remember a few tragic moments. The artillery barrage started in the middle of the night, with dozens of batteries firing at the same time. The mountain and its environs lit up with an eerie yellowish-red glow. We loaded the guns, fired, loaded, fired, eight 25-pound shells a minute, for hours on end. When the barrels grew too hot, we cooled them with wet blankets. I saw a shell explode in the hot barrel of a gun and rain death all around. But a worse tragedy was caused by human fatigue and nonchalance. To fire a shell, a soldier had to get very close to the gun and load the shell gently into the hatch. As the guns got hotter and the muscles more tired, soldiers began to throw the shells into the guns from further away. They did that hundreds of times, grew smug about it, and then one of the guns blew up,

igniting a store of ammunition. That’s what hell must be like, I thought at the time. The entire crew was killed, torn into small pieces by the force of the explosions. One soldier jumped out of a nearby ditch, his clothes on fire. We threw some blankets on him but could not save him. The next morning, we collected bits of human flesh scattered all over the site, none big enough to identify the victim.

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After taking Monte Cassino, we were moved to Monte Cairo, to give artillery support for the Carpathian Lancers going against Passo Corno. Then we advanced northward along the Via Emilia and the Adriatic coast until we reached the Forli region, the birthplace of Mussolini. There we wintered, facing the Germans dug in just outside our firing range. In the spring, the Allied offensive against Bologna gathered momentum, where we went into action for the last time.

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How did we learn that the war was over? We were still in our battle positions. Around us, the wheat fields were already knee-high. We did not think about the end of the war, for we were still on active duty. The day before I had lost a good telephone operator. He had heard something outside the door of the cottage we were resting in, opened the door, and been blown up by a German grenade. The next morning, on that sunny 25 April 1945, the division commander came to us and announced, “Gentlemen, the war is over.” What a waste of life, what a senseless death, we all thought about the telephonist; it seemed as if he had given his life for nothing. And yet, in some way, we all felt quite relieved, hoping that the ordeal was over.

When the war was over, we went south to the vicinity of Ascoli Piceno. The local people were warm and friendly, and they lodged us in a former agricultural college. It was a spacious building, with a wide hall, perfect for parties and other forms of entertainment. Our parties attracted also many local young women. In a short time, there was much talk about getting married, and several soldiers indeed tied the knot. The villagers did not mind those international marriages; in fact, the local priest held us as an example to the local youth: “Look at the Poles,” he said from the pulpit. “The war is barely over, and they are already thinking of starting families. Why can’t you do the same?”

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As for myself, I was not so thrilled by the prospects of marriage. Regular soldiers who came to me for advice quickly found that out. I was an officer and a battery commander, but I was very friendly with my charges. After all, we had gone through many battles together, and we trusted one another with our lives. So, when soldiers came to me asking whether they should get married, I used to tell them, “You’ll always have time for that, and in the meantime enjoy life.” Unfortunately, my advice was rarely effective, for when a man loses his heart, his mind usually goes with it. And yet I must admit that those who married and stayed in Italy have been for the most part quite satisfied with their lives.

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Other soldiers came to ask whether they should go back to Poland. One of them said to me, “Lieutenant, how is it that we volunteered to fight all the way to Poland, and now have been cheated like that? You’ve heard what Churchill said. He made a deal with the Russians and surrendered Poland to them. What are we going to do now?” What could I say, I was as bitter and disappointed as he was. “I’m not going back,” he said, “I’ve been in Soviet prisons.” And so had I. I only told him that my orders were to allow each soldier to reach his decision; I was not supposed to convince them one way or another.

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Although my two brothers, my sister, and my mother had remained in Poland, I chose to stay in the West. I was not alone in my decision to stay; in fact, not a bachelor from our regiment decided to go back. But there were some who could not bear the thought of leaving their wives and children behind; those chose to return, sometimes with tears in their eyes. Now, I know that their return had nothing to do with politics and that they cannot be blamed for it. But at the time most of us thought of our decision to stay in the West as a way to protest the Soviet takeover of Poland; those returning were viewed as betraying the Polish cause.

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We thought that we would go back as soon as Poland shook off the Soviet yoke. In the meantime, we settled wherever fate cast us, slowly acclimatized to new conditions, found jobs, started families. No one contemplated going back to the political tyranny and poverty in Poland, but the hope of return was always with us. When one of our friends accepted Canadian citizenship, we thought he was crazy. Why would he do something so anti-Polish? It took us some time to get used to this idea of becoming citizens of another country, but one by one we followed in his footsteps. For one thing, we needed all the rights of citizens to get organized, to influence foreign policies that could have an impact on Poland. Living from suitcases no longer made much sense. The die had been cast; we had chosen a new homeland, and that was where we had to live and work for our own good and for the good of Poland.

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We were still in Italy when it was announced that volunteers could sign up for two-year contracts as farm labourers in Canada. I signed up right away. Now, from the distance of years and experience, I do not think it was such a wise step. I should have gone to England and spent a couple of years preparing for civilian life. Many of my friends went that route and were the better for it. But at the time I felt I needed to cut the umbilical cord to the army with one quick decision. My commander told me, “What’s the hurry? You want to milk cows in Canada? You’ll always have time for that.” I did not listen. At the first opportunity, we presented ourselves before the Canadian commission. They showed us a couple of samples of wheat and asked us if we knew what it was. That was the extent of agricultural knowledge they required. Once accepted, we were transferred to a demobilization camp. Later, we boarded the liner Sea Robin and sailed for Halifax. We arrived there in the fall of 1946 and continued by rail to Winnipeg.

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Why did I choose Canada? When I was still a schoolboy, I had read Arkady Fiedler’s Canada, the Land of Fragrant Resin. That book had enchanted me. The ragged mountains, wild rivers, roaring grizzlies—a country of breathtaking beauty. And I do not think I was the only one searching for a childhood dream: Fidler’s images of a wild and noble country—a compulsory reading for Polish schoolboys—influenced many Polish veterans to seek out that vestige of paradise on earth.

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Immediately after my arrival, I discovered that while this vast land was indeed wild, its urban centres spoke mostly English, a language I did not know at all. My knowledge of Italian did not help much. Once, when we were still in the Fort Osborne Barracks, the regional commander, Brigadier-General Morton, invited all officers to the officers’ club. Our conversation consisted mostly of him and his assistants talking and us smiling politely. At one point he asked us—and this must have been translated for us—why we did not wear our military medals. We all had various distinctions (I had the Cross of Valour, the War Star, and the Star of Italy), but many of us did not wear them because we saw no point to parading in them in a foreign land. I do not wear them even today. He seemed puzzled.

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Thank God the Polish community in Manitoba, led by Mr. Dubienski, welcomed us with open arms. Mr. Dubienski organized for us a meeting with Mr. Christianson, from the local employment office. We were hoping we might convince him to let those involved in organizing the veterans in Canada remain in the vicinity of Winnipeg. Mr. Christianson invited us for tea, attended also by Mrs. Panaro, Mrs. Szczygielska, and the children of Mr. Dubienski. We first drank some whiskey and then presented to Mr. Christianson our plans for setting up an organization of Polish combatants, the Polish Combatants Association. Our leader, Boleslaw Czubak, had to remain in the city, we argued, and our arguments must have been quite convincing, for they let him stay. Most other organizers, including myself, got farm jobs in the vicinity of Winnipeg.

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Soon the farmers came to collect their new employees. I went to a farm on Highway 9, just before Lockport. My farmer had about 300 head of cattle, so my job was bringing hay from the stacks in the fields to the barn. In a sleigh drawn by a pair of horses, I had to drive out into the thick of a snowstorm, load the sleigh, and drive back to the barn. That was my chore twice a day. It was hard physical labour, perhaps too hard for my rather weak physical frame. But overall, the conditions on that farm—there were ten of us working there— were probably better than on most other farms. Everyone was paid $45 a month plus room and board, a minimum the farmer was obliged to pay. But the food was something else. After so much physical exertion, I was always ravenously hungry. When the ten of us sat down for breakfast or lunch, and the farmer’s wife brought us a stack of toast, jugs of coffee, and heaps of pork and bacon, the mountain of food was so high I could hardly see my colleagues on the other side of the table. It usually took us twenty minutes to eat the table clean. And six hours later, we were ready for another meal. We communicated with the farmer through his Ukrainian workers, who knew English much better than we did. My own job was simple: load, drive, unload, so my need for English was minimal.

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I worked for that farmer from November until spring. Then I moved to a farm in Springfield for another four or five months. Finally, a friend of mine gave me the name of a farmer who would sign my papers and not require that I work for him. I made the arrangements and moved to Winnipeg, where I had no money but at least had more time for organizational work.

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When I was still on a farm, I had usually come to town on the weekends. Only Czubak was permanently in Winnipeg, and most organizational responsibilities rested with him. We were greatly helped in our efforts to organize by the Polish weekly Czas. Those in charge of it, the editor Synowiecki and Mr. Chudzicki, gave us free access to the offices of Czas, located at Dufferin Street. They also let us use their telephone and often interpreted for us, as when the Mounties came to ask us about our political orientation and plans.

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It took us about a year to let our colleagues, scattered on farms across the province, know about our Combatants Association. They sent us money asking for Polish newspapers, books, correspondence, and membership in the association. They began to send us letters complaining about being stuck in God-forsaken holes. “The farmer is torturing me. Please help me to get out!” some letters read. We often heard such cries of despair and urgent pleas for help. We had to translate those letters for Mr. Christianson, who could intervene on a veteran’s behalf with the farmer, or even move a veteran to a different farm. Sometimes those interventions were necessary, for there were farmers who treated their workers worse than slaves. Mr. Dubienski advised us to “sit quietly and not stir trouble because the Canadian government will refuse to take in more veterans,” but in some cases we felt morally obliged to speak out.

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The Polish weekly Czas was also an important contact point for those seeking family members or friends who moved from farm to farm. Seeking out new addresses and answering the letters was time-consuming, but I do not remember a single letter that remained without reply. We understood how important it was for our men to stay in touch with one another in this vast and still-foreign country, and how important those Polish ties were for their morale and will to survive.

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When my own farm contract expired, I found a job in the construction firm of Mr. Chudzicki and Mr. Szarzyński. For fifty cents an hour, I mixed mortar and carried it to bricklayers. The pay was better than on any farm, for I made $4 a day and over $80 a month. The downside was that I had to pay for my own accommodation and food. I worked this way for two construction seasons, side-by-side with Czubak and other veterans. Later I got a job in a lady’s garment factory, which also employed many Poles. Lodzia-Michalski worked there as a presser, and I got hired as a cutter and held that job for ten years. Eventually, I found a job at the post office and stayed with it until my retirement.

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I was thirty-three years old when my closest friends started getting married and settling down. It was time for me, too, I thought. It so happened that I had just met an attractive young woman, Stefania Rajfur, so after a few months of courtship we tied the knot. We began our life together happy but poor. We could not afford any luxuries. It took us ten years to save for our first car, and furnishing our home took even longer. In the meantime, we brought into the world three children, two sons and a daughter. Some of my friends, Stanisław Ilkow for instance, went to university and later landed excellent jobs. I toyed with this idea but was afraid I would not cope with both work and school. After I got a job at the post office, our standard of living and my satisfaction with the job increased. Unlike some of the veterans, I did not have much education or technical skills and cannot speak of great professional accomplishments in Canada. What I can say, though, is that I honestly provided for myself and my family.

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I had become a member of the Polish Combatants Association while still in Italy. Our first board of organizers here in Winnipeg was comprised of people like Czubak, Klimaszewski, Mossakowski, Kalaska, Wielobob, and a few others whose names now escape me. We were the first and the strongest organization of Polish Combatants in Canada. The second strongest group was forming in Port Arthur, and Czubak sent me to one of their board meetings to convey his greetings and offer some practical advice. After Czubak’s departure, Klimaszewski became the first president of our newly formed Chapter #13 in Winnipeg. Following his resignation, I took over the reins. It was a difficult year. People were busy working and looking after their families; only a handful could still afford to remain actively involved in the combatants’ affairs. After a year of presiding over Chapter #13, I, too, had to limit my involvement to take care of various family matters. All of us, it seems, went through such low periods, but most of us returned to volunteer work when personal circumstances allowed.

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The Polish community in Manitoba needed our volunteer work, and we needed it, too. We brought a fresh dose of Polish language and culture into the fading memories of immigrants from almost half a century earlier. After one of the concerts we organized with the Polish choir Sokół, people commented that they hadn’t breathed so much homeland in a long time. For me personally, and probably for many others, our volunteer work on behalf of the combatants was a real school of civic life. The association became our second home, and its meetings and various functions were almost as important as family affairs. Some became so attached to our organization that they could not imagine life without it. To this day, they meet in the association’s clubhouse over a glass of beer, remember former days, and chat about the future.

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I am retired now and quite content with my life. I have three children and four grandchildren. One of my sons graduated from university with a degree in biology; he now works as a customs officer. My daughter finished nursing at the University of Manitoba and works as a registered nurse in a hospital. My oldest son is a sales manager in an agricultural equipment dealership. All my children have done very well for themselves and live much richer lives than I ever did. And that is how it should be.

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Most Polish combatants’ children have graduated from universities and now occupy important positions in Canadian society. I never heard of any major disappointments. Their parents had to struggle to give them food and education and could not themselves afford any luxuries in life. But none of them regrets investing in their children and giving them a head start. After all, our children are our future.

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Source: "Providence Watching" with the kind permission of Dr. Patalas

 

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Copyright: Wilton family

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