The Polish Diaspora, 1939-55

Emilia Kot Chojnacka (back row, center) with her family, Siberia, 1941 It was early morning on a Saturday, February 10, 1940, when we heard a knock on the door. We opened it and there stood a Russian soldier pointing his gun at us, ordering us to pack. He was accompanied by a local Polish Jew, which was very fortunate for us. My mom started to pack porcelain; this Jewish man told her to take things like clothing and bedding instead. My aunt had just put some bread into the oven, and asked if they could at least wait until the bread was ready and then she’d also give them some. We took all day to pack, which is how we got to be the last ones on the transport. We were in transit for three weeks. We traveled in Polish, then, Russian cattle trucks. They gave us some water and bread. In the trucks we cut a hole in the floor to serve as a toilet and hung some cloth around it for privacy. My father and older sister, who had not been deported, did not know what had happened to us until we wrote to them from Siberia. Emilia Kot Chojnacka b. 1931, Berteszów February 1940, deported to Soviet Union 1942-50, India, Africa 1950-present, England	STALINIST OPPRESSION
Our settlement was gripped by great fear. We did not know what to do. We felt deserted by the Polish officials since we did not know, at first, that some of them had been arrested. The Soviet officials were reassuring us that they would not throw us off our farms. However, in October 1939, the Ukrainian Committee announced that about 12 families would have to move out, and without any show of resistance as “resistance could cost lives.” Among the farms chosen was ours, maybe because it had a big brick house with good, fertile land. We were instructed to leave our home within 24 hours; we were allowed to take a few personal possessions, food, some furniture, and our two dogs, but no farm livestock. I was 14 and felt all that was happening very deeply; this was the end of my carefree childhood. The War came to destroy our quiet life in eastern Poland. Our fate of being homeless was just beginning. Danuta M¹czka Gradosielska b. 1925, Równe February 1940, deported to the Soviet Union 1942-46, Iran, Palestine, Iraq, Egypt, Italy 1946-present, England
A White Wave of Goodbye Kochaneczko mój, My little precious one, Gwiazdeczko moja, My little star, all I have to give you now, Anio³eczku mój, my little angel, is this little white gown. I made it with my own hands, cut from my wedding dress. I did not know on that day of love and happiness when I first wore it that my dress would go with us so far, to Siberian snows where we were forced to labour and starve. This dress, sacrificed one piece at a time, bought us life. One day, a piece made your baby brother’s burial gown. I made one for you, too, Iskiereczko moja, my little light, hoping against hope it would not be for this. What I wore in love and hope for the future Now wraps your body in love and hope for your soul, ¿ebyœ nie zosta³ sam, that you would not be left alone, ¿ebyœ zosta³ z anio³ami that you would be left with angels. Kochaneczko mój, my little loved one, ¿ycie moje, my life, I must leave you now. Your little white gown must not lie in the mud. I wait, for the bodies to be piled. I place yours, only just three, tenderly at the top. The breeze gently ripples your gown. My heart explodes in my throat. The train pulls away, struggling to cross the border in time and I hang, as far out of the window as humanly possible, as long as possible, so my eyes can engrave this last view of you upon my soul. Your little white gown, from high atop the pile, waves in the breeze a gentle good-bye up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down. Mamusia moja, my dear Mummy, Your love enfolds me, I am freed of strife. Duszo moja, my soul, this last piece of veil I will keep all my life. © Anon., 2007