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Zofia (Wonka) GALINA

My name is Zofia Wonka-Galina. I was born on April 15, 1930. I come from Lesko, currently in the province of Krosno (until 1939 it was in the Lviv province). Until August 1939. my father was a city guard. In August 1939, he was drafted to the National Defense. During the war, he evacuated to Hungary and stayed there in an internment camp for Polish soldiers. After the Germans entered Hungary, he was deported to forced labor in Germany, where he worked in an aircraft parts factory, treated as a slave.

On April 13, 1940 at 3:00 in the morning we were awakened by a knock on the window and the voice of a neighbor, Stanisław Romowicz (a Ukrainian), who called my mother: - "Mrs. Wonkowa, open the door, I'm not alone, the NKVD is here!" At the neighbor's call several times, Mama did not open it. Only when she heard in Russian "chaziajka atkryj zdzies NKVD", she got up, lit the lamp, and opened the door. In a Mamaent, she returned with her hands raised, followed by Romowicz, carrying her lamp, the NKVD commander behind him and two Red Army men armed with rifles and bayonets. The neighbor and the commander sat down at the table while Mama remained standing with her hands up. The commander laid out the papers, asked Mama for her surname, first name and address. Mama replied. Then he told the neighbor to talk, and he spoke the following words: "I have come to testify that your husband escaped from the Soviets because he didn't want to serve the Soviet authorities and that you kept a pistol and that you cannot stay here, because the border is close, and you can engage in espionage." With these words Mother, crying, said: "Why are you lying? Lord knows my husband did not escape from the Soviets, neither do I keep weapons nor am I interested in espionage". The commander asked Romowicz, "Szto gavorit?" He replied that Mama said she wouldn't give up the gun and she didn't want to go anywhere. Mama said, "I don't have a gun, my husband gave it away to the Magistrate, because it was official”. Then the commander said "Sdełajem obisk". They searched our home and did not find it. In the protocol, he wrote "Wremia obiska orużja narużeuo." This protocol was signed by the commander, the witness Romowicz and my mother.

Later, the commander wrote down the furniture. Mama cried terribly, but started packing bedding and clothes as much as she could. The neighbor, seeing that the commander does not forbid Mama from taking our things, whispered in his ear several times, that he would not allow it.  The commander allowed our neighbor Mrs. Joanna Boraczysiska, an old woman, to enter and say goodbye. The neighbor brought a few sacks and bags to Mama to pack. We were allowed to take everything: clothes, bedding and kitchen utensils, a Singer sewing machine bought in 1939. Romowicz did not benefit from anything, despite the efforts of his brother Wladyslaw to make our aunt (father's sister, who didn't even live with us) go with us as well.  When she was informed that her sister-in-law was being taken away, she ran to say goodbye. The commander, seeing that she had the same name, made her come with us.


At 7:00 we were already sitting on the wagon, and all our things were placed on the other. There was leaven for bread, which Mama made the night before the arrival of the NKVD, to bake bread, but the commander allowed the neighbor, Władysława Woźniak, to take it to bake bread. He also ordered us to take care of our cow. After we left the door was sealed. The commandant  and the neighbor left, and the Red Army men accompanied us on the way to the Olszanica railway station, a few kilometers from Lesko. Waiting for us were freight cars with barbed wire on the windows. It was very crowded in the wagons. People sat on the floor and on the shelves. We were placed on a top shelf, under the ceiling. Even before the train left with us, they arrived say goodbye to us, Mama’s parents, and her brother. They brought some food and some things and bedding for Auntie, who was only in what she was wearing. The train travelled to Przemyśl, where we were loaded onto Russian freight cars, much bigger, for a wide track. Luggage had to be handed over to the cargo wagons. You could have bedding, some clothes and food with you. Every day we received half a round loaf of bread per person. Mama put bread in a sack to save it for later.


Water was scarce, so we were always thirsty. Sometimes the Russian soldiers gave a bucket of "kipiatok", but this water was not suitable to drink, with oil was floating on top. After the train would stop at a station, the Russians approached the wagons and asked for bread, and we asked for water. And so, through the wagon windows we exchanged. Poles threw bread, lowered jugs and bottles, tied with strings and pulled in the water. We travelled like this for about 2 weeks. One locomotive pulled and the other pushed, dozens of wagons with people. They were checking all the time. Red Army soldiers entered the wagons and read out people’s names from a list. The sick and the dead were taken away. They were mostly older people and children. I remember how Mama was worried and asked God that we didn't get sick. I had two sisters aged 6 and 3.5 years. Fortunately, none of our family did get sick or die during the trip. We arrived at the Martiek railway station in Kazakhstan. There they unloaded the entire transport of people and baggage from the cargo wagons. Anyone with baggage had to go on this pile to find it. People turned things to their advantage and they stole from each other. Mama and Auntie went to get the baggage, and I looked after the little sisters and what we had with us. At that time two men came and took away a large bag of bread. Mama and Auntie found almost all the baggage.


In Martuk, they accommodated us for a short time in a red brick house not yet finished. There were no windows inserted, only a roof over the head. They called the adults together and said they would send 10-15 families each to collective farms and to sign up who wants to be together with whom. But unfortunately, the names were mixed up and in the end they did not know who was who. They took us from Martuk in trucks. We ended up in the village of Mikhailovka, Khobdin district, Aktyubin region. We arrived before May 1st. The steppe were covered with multicolored tulips. It looked beautiful. When they unloaded us from the trucks, there was a commotion. People were crying - they said, "What are we going to do in this desert?".


The head of the kolkhoz, who was present at our arrival, said: "Work, little dog and you will get used to it." The village was inhabited mostly by Germans. The houses stood evenly, in 4 rows, which created two streets along the village. A few of the houses were grander, with plank ceilings inside. In other houses the ceilings were steep. There was no attic or wooden floors, just compacted earth like a threshing floor. The houses were built of clay, water, and chaff from grain, from such "kirpichi" (similar in size to today's hollow bricks). Clay houses made of this mass were durable, they did not wash away due to the lack of rain in this climate. People who had more baggage were more willingly admitted to the boarding house. Those who had nothing were even worse off. They were not provided housing. Everyone had to look after themselves. There was no money. But what use would it be if there was nothing to buy? There was only something to exchange for food, of which the natives had little. We were 500 km away from the railway station. The distance between the villages ranged from 80 km to 120 km. Without a Soviet pass, one was not allowed to go anywhere. And who would dare, since there was no designated road, no roadside trees, no poles, no signposts? Heaven and earth. Just sand. The roads were dirt, covered with sand in the summer and snow in the winter, and the wolves roamed all year round. It was the worst in winter when the roads were snowy. At that time, those who had to go somewhere on business wandered around in the steppe. Mama and Auntie worked in the kolkhoz. They did various tasks in the field, in spring and summer. During urgent work in the field, they came home once every two weeks. They lived in the steppe, in carts like wagons. The land cultivated by the kolkhoz was far from the village, so it was not profitable to transport people by oxen every day, because it took too long. Only water carts brought water to the steppe every day, in wooden barrels. During the absence of my mother and aunt, I had to look after my sisters. My sisters went to kindergarten. They stayed there from morning to afternoon and were fed three times a day. They weren't as hungry as I was. Sometimes they even got something good to eat. For the children, the kolkhoz did not skimp on food. There was milk, millet, flour for mashing, bread was also made of better flour, so you could endure. Kindergarten was open for several months during spring and summer, in winter there was no work in the fields, and the children had no warm clothes, so they stayed at home.


The first winter was very hard for us. You had to get used to the cold and hunger. My youngest sister cried several times a day and called "Mama bread!" My sisters quickly learned the German language. Between children, they did not want to speak a lot in Polish. I had to try not to forget the Polish language. My mother worked in the barns in the winter. I had to feed, water, take away manure, take care of sick animals. Sometimes Mama had to go with a few people in a sleigh into the steppe, to collect straw. She got some matches from a piece of sulfur cardboard and a pitchfork on a long stick. It was supposed to be a defense against wolves. A fire had to be lit in case the wolves attacked. I always cried when Mama had to go. I was afraid the wolves would eat Mama.


15 km from the village flowed the Chobda river. It had a very deep trough, but the heat of the water left it like a stream. The Poles improved the irrigation system: the Russian - gardener Vladimir Nikora and a Pole - Mr. Jan Biodrowicz, who helped and advised him. A plot of land was irrigated, on which potatoes, cabbage, red beets, tomatoes, onions, were planted - all vegetables were good. Everything was taken to the county (region). My mother took me with her to harvest the vegetables. On the other hand, she had more work to do, and I got soup from the boiler. It was soup with vegetables, which were always missing. I did not go to a permanent job, because in our kolkhoz they did not employ children for profit. School children worked only during the eradication of ground squirrels. They also collected ears, mostly millet. The children went to school. Only in winter, those who did not have a[[rp[roate clothing to wear, sat at home. In the first year after my arrival, I went to III class. I had no difficulty learning. Russian was not difficult for me. I was still in the fourth grade, and then instead of the 5th Russian, I went to the 4th one more year, because it was allowed to teach children Polish from 1st to 4th grade.


Jadwiga Lorenc, a teacher who was with us in the village taught all Polish children. There were no textbooks in Polish, so she translated from Russian textbooks. I did well in 3rd grade, but I had lower marks for not wanting to be a "pioneer" and for wearing a medallion. In the fourth grade, I was taught by Mrs. Lorenc, from whom I received better grades. Until the outbreak of the German-Russian war in 1941, we received letters from Father in Hungary, letters from families from Poland, several 5 kg packages with food and several hundred rubles for the property sold at auction - the sender was an NKVD in Lesko. I don't remember if it was the first winter of 1940/41 or later, when help came from America: blankets and fat. We received for 5 people 2 blankets, and I think it was lard. The Poles chose a "trust man" among themselves. It was Mr. Kazimierz Piotrowski. An elderly gentleman, he dealt with various matters concerning Poles and often went to the region and oblast. When the war broke out, contact with the world was almost completely cut off, and we did not receive any messages.


We did not experience the bombings and the whistling of bullets, the front was far from us, but we experienced what other people did not - they can even imagine. We lived in abject poverty. They paid little for our work, sometimes they gave some grain, straw and dried manure for firewood. All as advance, and later, after counting the year's work, it turned out that they gave too much. And yes, there was an endless debt, growing year by year. In addition to advances, workers received 200 g of bread. Sometimes it was just a handful of crumbs, depending on the bread that was baked, what grain or flour it was made of. In addition, those working in the field received 1 liter of some soup, e.g. millet on water with a little rapeseed oil. Sometimes, when a piece of mutton was cooking in the soup, a piece of meat was also cooking found. Mama, knowing that she would return home that day, left half of the soup for me. When she came by oxen late at night, I had this feast. I ate the cold soup. I often only ate a little once a day. We lived in poverty, there was no salt, soap, kerosene, thread, matches. There was nothing to wash with, that's why it was impossible to exterminate lice.


We got poorer and poorer every year. Everything was falling apart. Mama was constantly exchanging something for dairy products at the housekeepers in our village: clothing, bed linen, kitchen utensils. Some of our stuff was exchanged or sold in bazaars in the area or in Aktyubinsk, e.g. the sewing machine. Mama didn't sew because there was no thread. Mama went to the county bazaar several times. If she sold something for money, she immediately bought food there. I felt sorry for everything we had that had to be parted with. Almost everything was going for nothing, e.g. a medium-sized gold ring, like new, bought before 1939. Mama gave it away for 5 liters of millet. A teacher bought it in the village. Mama only kept saying that it was all acquired so that we would be healthy. In 1943, the winter was very hard. Those who had food kept it for themselves. On the kolkhoz the horses were sick, and had scabies. They were treated but to no avail. My mother worked at the stables at the time. Shifts with sick horses lasted day and night. From each animal that fell, Mama had to remove the skin. Meat had to be eaten because there was almost nothing else. My mother always told the Poles to come before the Germans for the meat.


All this time we were deprived of medical care. Until June 1941 there was a sanitary point where a Russian feldsher was employed, but he was summoned to war. The facility was poorly equipped. In addition to the thermometer almost nothing was there, except that he could recognize lesser diseases. It was closed for a long time. When they brought a few families of Romanians to Michajlovka, the sanitary point became active again. A Romanian feldsher worked there. Only once, in the spring of 1942, they came from the county and vaccinated the entire population of the village against typhus. Vaccination was done three times, at weekly intervals. They were injections in the forearm, which made everyone sick, with swelling and high temperature. People only got sick with typhus in the summer. typhus was the deadliest disease. Mostly everyone died, and that's what we were all afraid of the most. Typhus patients were forcibly taken to the hospital in the infectious diseases ward, and they died there. The hospital notified the family and that was it. Poles died in Michajłowka. Two people who were not taken to the hospital in time, and one in the hospital, suffered from typhoid fever. All other diseases and ailments that were present in exhausted organisms were left untreated. The people there knew some folk healer ways and, if necessary, they helped the Poles. When in June 1942 I was stung by a viper in the leg, an elderly German woman saved my life. When the Polish Army was organized from our village, no one went to the army, only two brothers, Krajnik, Sławek and Michał, went to the cadets because they were too young for the army.


Nothing terrible happened in our village - the Poles did not resist, no one rebelled. The workers followed the orders of the foremen. Throughout our stay in Kazakhstan Poles had their documents changed several times. The NKVD kept coming from the county and, together with the president of the kolkhoz, tried to persuade the Poles to join the kolkhoz. No one listened to them, everyone said they had no assets to contribute. They replied that hands would suffice. Membership in thecollective farm would be tantamount to accepting Russian citizenship. At meetings that lasted several hours after work, until late at night, they shouted that they were Poles sitting on their suitcases thinking how to get back to Poland. Such meetings made us even sadder. People doubted their hopes, they wept, they despaired, they silently gathered together to pray and sing hymns to God. They kept each other's spirits up, and hope returned that maybe one day we will return to Poland. All the time without real news. There was no radio, newspapers were all expired, but what's in it it was real. We were waiting for good news for us. From the German-Russian war we had no news from Father, nor from families in Poland.


Year after year passed in misery, terrible heat in summer and winter temperatures of several tens of degrees below freezing. In the summer there was no coolness or  shade, wells were drying up. It only rained a few times during our stay. In winter terrible frosts and blizzards. It was hard for us to get used to this climate. The natives treated us well, there was no hatred among the villagers to Poles. The village was inhabited by 62 families, of which 49 were German. They were treated worse. Every few years there were mass arrests of men. The last of them took place shortly before our arrival and none of those arrested ever returned, nor has anyone ever found out what happened to them. The Germans trusted us. Especially the elderly told how they lived under the tsar. They were also waiting for their liberation.


It was early autumn in 1944. Mama worked 15 km from the village harvesting vegetables and I helped her. When we returned to the village, carts were taking us. Somewhere in the middle of the road the president met us. He announced that tomorrow morning the Poles are to be ready to leave. At 8:00 a.m., September 27, 1944, assembling in front of Soviets. Mama and Auntie didn't sleep that night. They were getting ready to travel, they were baking pies for the trip. In the morning Mama woke us up, gave us food and we went to the assembly point. Several oxen carts were already waiting. We loaded all our things and we headed out. We had to drive to Martuk train station. we were going several days with the oxen carts, we crossed a deep river on lthe wagons, we were soaked and scared. At last we arrived at Martuk, where the  transport freight wagons were waiting. In some wagons there were already Poles from other towns. No one knew where they would take us. Everyone was worried, worried that maybe we'll end up in an even worse place. The war was still going on and it was obvious that we cannot go to Poland even if they wanted to take us there. We were loaded onto the freight cars and off we went.


It turned out that we were going in the direction of Poland. People enjoyed this immensely. We traveled for over a month (27.IX.1944 - 05.XI.1944) until our large transport stopped at the small village of Novy Spejer in Ukraine. The Poles were ordered to move to the village of Stary Szpejer, a distance of 7 km. We had to go on foot and move what we had. The village of Stary Szpejer was as big as a small town, imposing, brick, plastered houses with colored glazed windows. The houses stood in several long rows, making several streets lengthwise and actoss. The village was all deserted. Allegedly, the inhabitants were displaced to Kazakhstan - they were German settlers. We took a small empty house, without any equipment. To sleep Mama made bunks, legs out of bricks, and the door, which was removed from its hinges, was placed on the bricks, covered with dry corn leaves, covered with old blankets - for sitting and sleeping. They told us that the longest we will stay in this town is a month. Turns out we lived there for another year.

People were looking for food and nothing could be found nearby. We ate dried grapes, which were plentiful in the plantations. These grapes were on the bushes and under the bushes in fallen leaves. It was November. Soon an epidemic of typhoid fever broke out. It didn't miss our family. Mama and my middle sister got sick first. There was no medical help - we were helpless, there was nothing to help the sick. Only every few hours we poured a few teaspoons of lukewarm boiled water into their mouths. And so the day of December 8, 1944 arrived. The saddest day in my life so far. My Dearest Mother fell asleep forever, without regaining consciousness. After such a hard life, filled to the brim with care for us, overwork and despair. She was worried if she had enough life to raise us. She left so quietly... Even I didn't hear any louder breathing. On November 16, 1944, she turned 38. She left us poor orphans in exile. And it was close to the end of our captivity. Yes, I regret that I don't even have my mother's grave. Today, after so many years, I am writing these words through tears. My sister barely survived, she hardly breathed, she slept unconscious. Someone advised us to put a mirror over her mouth and a little steam appeared on the mirror. She survived, and she already had her coffin measurements taken. For my mother, a friend, Mr. Belach - a carpenter from Lesko, put together something that can hardly be called a coffin, because there were no boards. We buried Mama. When my sister came to her senses, she asked where Mama was. I said she wenr to the bazaar in Odessa. Finally, I was forced to tell her the truth that Mama died. When I took her to Mother's grave, she screamed for her mother dig it up because she wanted to say goodbye.


Shortly before Christmas 1944, we fell ill. Auntie, me and my youngest sister. I remember the beginning of the disease, and then I lost consciousness. The three of us lay there, and our middle, nine-year-old sister took care of us. She served us melted snow, cloudy, un-boiled water. She could not draw water from the well, because the well was all iced up, so it took strength and cunning to get water. When I woke up and saw that Auntie was dead. I asked my sister what Auntie was doing, she replied that she had been sleeping like this for several days, but she gave her water all the time. Then I started crying. I told my sister to go to Mrs. Biodrowicz. If he lives and can, tell him to come. I was so weak that I couldn't stand up. Sister came back with Mrs. Biodrowiczowa who decided to take us to her place. She had three daughters and had survived typhus in her teens, they all survived. She sent my sister after her daughters. When they came, they took us with them. Me and my youngest sister couldn't walk, even though it was close. They took everything that was ours. Only Auntie stayed… Mrs. Biodrowicz took care to bury Auntie. We didn't know exactly the date of her death. We established it as January 6, 1945 om the death certificate in Ukraine. She lived 36 years.


Poles were not repatriated, there was no Office at that time when Poles en masse died of typhus. We survived typhus without any medicine. How much can a person endure? Really much. After my aunt's death, I despaired twice. Auntie was our Godmother. She promised that as long as she is alive, she will replace our mother, that she will sacrifice herself for us, but fate is cruel and wanted otherwise. And so, I had a double despair after her death. I was most afraid that if we do not leave soon, they will take us to the orphanage and we will not return to Poland, but stay in Russia, because we were minors. We lived at Mrs. Biodrowicz's in the kitchen, we had a wide bed, which was enough for three skinny girls. I was almost getting healthy after typhus, the dizziness subsided, my hair stopped falling out, I had an appetite, but there was nothing to eat. The hunger was very painful. I had to manage because I had 2 sisters that I had to look after. I had to feed them once a day so that they had something to eat so that the soul does not leave the body.


Spring came in 1945. Around the village there were fields with grain left. Maybe there was no one left to collect it, because the inhabitants had been evicted? At first we thought the uneven rows are the graves of fallen soldiers, because someone accidentally discovered such a grave. But they were mounds made by hamsters. Thanks to hamsters, you can get grain. We stripped the earth from the mounds and picked out those ears of corn. It was possible to eat this. When there was grain, there was flour and groats, though not much. There were a lot of people, everyone was going to the mounds for ears of corn. A kolkhoz was organized in the village. They brought a large transport of Ukrainians. They were Ukrainians from Volhynia. They had the right to take with them whatever they found, in any quantity. Many houses were still empty, because Poles didn't take all of them and a lot of people died. These houses were occupied by the Ukrainians. They started to run but turned back. Adult Poles worked a little on the kolkhoz in the spring. Fallow land had to be plowed and sown.


At last, the war is over. We found out about this a bit late. There was great joy. We had more and more hope to return to Poland. Summer passed, autumn came, there was work on the kolkhoz harvesting corn. Poles worked casually in the kolkhoz. We knew we were temporary. The braver of the young people started to take risks, they traveled on their own, usually without tickets, on  freight trains to Lviv. There was already an active Repatriation Office. They issued permits to travel to Poland. After a group of young people left, a letter arrived to come ahead. You had to get money to buy moonshine from the Ukrainians, who produced it. Moonshine was needed for the railroad workers as a bribe. I didn't have anything for sale except our father’s suit. Poles went to the bazaar to Odessa, I let them sell it for me. It was bought by some Gypsy with cash. Ms. Biodrowiczowa decided to go to Lviv and persuaded me because we really had no reason to stay there any longer. She had nothing left to do sell. I gave her the money to dispose of. We were just left with what we had on us, with one bundle, with a worn pillow and eiderdown. I baked a few pancakes with the leftover flour.


I went with my sisters to the cemetery - we brought some green twigs, prayed, said goodbye to the graves. I took a few clods of earth from the graves of my mother and aunt, which I keep as relics to this day. We came back from the cemetery and on that day, and it was it was November 23, 1945, in the evening we left with a few families in a rented truck to the Waterłowo railway station. The driver was driving from the kolkhoz on business. We bribed railway workers with moonshine and money. They put us in an empty freight car. The train was going towards Lviv. They ordered us to sit quietly at the stops. We changed trains a few times. They kicked us out when they opened the wagon as empty. Each time the railway men had to be given something. After a few days we arrived in Lviv, in a covered wagon, in which was loaded a thick layer of iron ore. We were all dirty and cold. In Lviv, we were placed in a shelter. It was quite a spacious tenement house, whose ground floor was given away by the nuns. Several rooms were occupied by people. Them was no furniture, just den floors made of bedding scraps and lice-ridden rags. It was so cramped it was hard to get through when someone had to leave after filling the entire floor. We stayed in Lviv for several days. Mrs. Biodrowicz went to the Repatriation Office several times until she got a travel card. She had great difficulty because of us. She presented our mother's documents, but it was for them not very credible. Finally, it worked. They put us on her Repatriation Card. Once everything was arranged, from the station in Lviv we got to Przemyśl. In Medyka there was an inspection, they checked all documents carefully. There was a panic that the Russians will take the gold from the train passengers, because several wagons were going to Poland. I was afraid too, so  I was carrying a pouch around my neck - family heirlooms were in it. My parents' gold wedding rings, a gold watch from Grandma, Father's Mother, gold earrings from Mama. I gave it to a friend of mine, she had her ears pierced and could wear the earrings. On December 16, 1945, we crossed the border. The lady who took care of us all the way was Mrs. Biodrowicz with her daughters. I owe them a lot and I still remember them fondly.


In Nowy Sącz, when we were waiting for the train to Zagórze, a young man took an interest in such ragged children and met us in the waiting room,  He asked, where are we going and where are we coming from? It turned out that it was our cousin Jan Berezik from Lesko. This is how we met after 6 years of absence. He immediately bought us a hot meal from the buffet. He brought us to his Mother, our Aunt. The community helped us. We knew nothing about Father. We were treated as orphans. There was a proposal to put us in an orphanage. My sisters cried and asked me not to give them away, that they wanted to be with me. We were supposed to be separated, them together, me apart, because I was almost 16 years old. I didn't want to give them away. They both went to school, and I was there at home. I did everything myself as best I could. We lived in our home in Lesko.


In the summer of 1946, our Father returned. After returning from Germany, he lived in Lubsko in the Recovered Territories from August 1945. Father, as soon as he found out that transports with deportees are coming from Russia, he wrote a letter to our Aunt, Ludwika Szatkowska, asking if there was any news about us. Auntie wrote back that the children had returned to Lesko alone. He wrote to us right away and soon he came. He wanted to take us west, but I didn't want to go. I did not want to leave our house again. Father took my middle sister and left. I stayed with the youngest. We had a hard time. Father sent us money, but not much, as he did not earn a lot. A year later I wrote to him to come get us. And so for the second time I left my hometown forever. From July 10, 1947, I live in Lubsko. I have described our experiences and the misery in exile briefly and maybe not very well exactly. After so many years, I was admitted to the Union of Siberians in 1989. I had to fill out the form and describe as much as I could remember.


List of Names


I enclose a list of people with whom I was transported to the village of Michajlowka in Kazakhstan (the sign of the cross means the dead):


1. Adamek Maria 􀀼

2. Adamczyk Józefa, Edwarda, Zdzislaw, Bolesław

3. Biodrowicz Maria, Anna, Bronislawa, Wanda from Posada Leska

4. Białas Katarzyna and her mother

5. Biodrowicz Jan*, Aniela*, Eugenia*, Bronisława from Posada Leska

6. Dabrowski brother and two sisters from Łomży

7. Krajnik Anna, Michał, Sławek

8. Kabaj Karolina, Michalina from Posada Leska

9. Lorenc Jadwiga and son

10. Leliwa Maria and daughter

11. Madej Karolina

12. Nahurska Maria and son Jerzy from Zagórza

13. Nebesio Mother, Halina, Genia, Stanisława* from Sanok

14. Plichta Eugenia*, Władysława*, Janina from Mrzygłod

15. Pastuszczak Anna*, and Jan*  

16. Piotrowski Kazimierz, Honorata and her sister

17. Tardowicz Helena*,  Jerzy

18. Wonka Waleria*, Stanisława*, Zofia, Stanislawa, Stefania from Leska

         * = died in exile

© Copyright by Zofia Wonka po mężu Galina

Translated from the original Polish

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