Michal Iwanowski

Clear of People

Bryansk

Gomel

Sukhinichi

Kiev

Kalinkavichy

Kaluga

Moscow

Minsk

Among the marshes I find a bonfire ready to be lit. A primordial gift one human has left for another.

You feel there is not much point in going in any direction, like there can’t be an end to this landscape.

The sound of a train startled an old heron out of hiding. I watched it fly away. Its broken leg dangled and made the bird look like a capital T against the brightening sky.

It’s been raining for days, and the ground has swelled up like a breast ready to feed an army. It feels like walking along the bottom of a giant lake.

At the back of a monastery wall I notice a collection of names and dates scratched with a blunt tool. The tree. The reply, reads one of them.

When it got darker, the forest changed. I remembered being a child, playing outside too late, and getting frightened when trees turned into dark silhouettes, like friends turning into foes.

An old spitting woman with a metal bowl in her hand stands in front of her house. She says something to me in Lithuanian, and then laughs. She seems to be telling me a story. The only word I understand is aparata when she glances at my camera and smiles. Then she shows me her badly fixed broken arm, and a dark, pierced hole in her wrist. Like a local Jesus, with one big, yellow tooth.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

After leaving Wilno on a crowded train, we finally made it to lake Narocz.

We pitched the tents, then dipped our hands in the lake for the first

time  – before our first cup of tea. A flat-headed engineer came out

of nowhere and tried to chase us away, but we stayed the night regard-

less. It was great to sleep on the grass. Even the mosquitos took it easy

on us that night.

* * *

At last! It’s my turn to be the cook. Supper was good, breakfast was very

good, and dinner was a disaster. Damn it. I curse the day I got this task,

slaving away by the fire all day, getting burnt, getting dizzy.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

In the summer of 1940, when Lithuania was enjoying a  spell of inde-

pendence, my brother received a message that Kaunas would be hosting

the national swimming championship. Tolek – a well known swimmer –

put his name forward for the competition.

To everybody’s surprise, he came first. Every sports newspapers fea-

tured his photograph on the cover the next morning, with a  caption:

A. Ivanauskas wins Lithuanian Championship. After the victory, he was

invited to participate in the international swimming competition

between Lithuania and Estonia, which was to take place in a  fortnight.

He went to Kaunas as agreed. When they got to the hotel, the coach noticed

Tolek’s shoes had no soles. He took him straight to a shop, and got him

a brand new pair.

There’s a  reason I’m describing this. My life was different to my

brother’s. It was full of unexpected events. I am writing this to show

Excerpts from: Wiktor Iwanowski. Wilno, ojczyzno moja… Wspomnienia, Szczecin, 1994

Notes by Tolek Iwanowski from a sailing camp diary, 1934

3

how to overcome obstacles in life. It was my brother who taught me

how to live.

* * *

The next day a messenger from the headquarters came with news of remo-

bilisation. The rallying point was set in Skorbuciany. I was assigned the

role of a runner.

We would set off individually, following the shortest suggested road.

It was truly impressive to see the sheer number of youngsters signing

up and bringing along – god knows from where – all sorts of different

machine guns, bullets, bayonets, and even modern handguns. The volun-

teers were often as young as 15 years of age.

The atmosphere in the squad was most enthusiastic. We proudly wore

white-and-red bands on our sleeves and an eagle on our caps. You could

hear songs from all directions. We were euphoric. No longer scared of

other bands prowling our turf – we felt like the masters of our own land

at last. Nobody even minded the extreme heat and nagging hunger.

* * *

After the initial shots a  real barrage from the German side began.

Then a  deafening sound of a  howitzer. That shot turned out to be fatal.

It  hit the corner of a  wooden house, instantly killing the commander

of the 6th squad and his deputy.

Lieutenant Poraj, seeing me struggle with my broken rifle (he had

already suggested earlier that it belonged in a museum, not in partisan

resistance) ordered me to immediately jump onto the back of his black

mare and abandon the battlefield. I never thought I had it in me to become

a cowboy that fast. I headed out the shortest way, along a 600-metre fallow.

As we galloped, I held onto that dear mare tight, pressing my thighs hard

4

against her sides, hearing nothing but the whizzing wind. I was so elated by

the ride that I didn’t hear any shots, and it did not occur to me I might get hit.

After the ambush, we regrouped for a  headcount. That was when

Żołędź noticed my leather jacket had been shot through. Why hadn’t it

even grazed me? – I have no idea. I just crossed myself, thanking God

and my late mother, whose protection I thought must have saved me

from death.

* * *

On the eve of the fateful 17th of July 1944 we were on the move all day.

Many partisans, especially the young ones and those still unaccustomed

to such hardship, suffered from severe leg injuries. But no one complained.

The novices bit their tongues and suffered silently.

We made it to our destination – a small hill by the school in Bogusze.

Our mission was to cover the school playground, where Polish Army

officers were to meet General Chernyakhovsky of the 3rd Belarusian

Front. With no trust in the intentions the Bolsheviks, Commander Wilk

believed it was necessary to organise back up.

We were expecting to hear “Fire!” any minute, when instead we sud-

denly heard my brother shout “Tanks!” and all our eyes turned to the other

side of the road, where in a hiding we noticed a number of well camou-

flaged heavy machines. The sight was terrifying. Then we saw a little boy

running towards us, sobbing and screaming repeatedly: “The Russians

took our officers!” It all happened so fast.

A small plane was circling above our heads, and it became obvious the

whole action had been a  trap orchestrated by the NKVD. Subsequently,

all  our officers were rounded up on that school playground, disarmed,

loaded onto trucks and driven to Łukiszki prison in Wilno. Thus without

spilling any blood the Polish Army was simply eliminated.

7

* * *

A formidable man in a cape emerged from the forest on a black horse and

rode towards us – General Chernyakhovsky himself. In a ringing voice

he called us over. He looked at our few thousand-strong group, and with-

out getting off the horse he spoke in Russian: “Soldiers, friends, I am one

of you, will we come together and fight against the fascists? I know how

you’ve struggled. We, the Soviet Army, want to provide you with modern

weapons and ammunition, to dress you in new uniforms, so that we can

continue to fight the hated enemy together.”

Someone asked: “Will we carry on as Polish Army and what uniforms

will we be wearing?” He answered: “You will still be Polish Army, under the

orders of your commanders, but under the supremacy of the Soviet Army.”

Another condition was then mentioned: “Now lay down your weapons,

and you will receive brand new armament.” We were baffled and unsure

what to do. The general and his entourage rode away.

We noticed we were surrounded by a large number of NKVD officers,

mostly on horses, and a tight row of infantry to the side, all armed with

machine guns. An officer stepped forward and instructed us to deposit

our guns in the middle of a designated meadow. Having no other choice,

we agreed among ourselves we would disable each gun by removing the

lock and trampling it into the ground. Many of us kept the handguns behind

our belts. That forced disarmament was one of the biggest tragedies of my

partisan life. Many could not hide their despair, yet our tears were not those

of weakness, but those of helplessness. Quietly we swore under our breath

we would return one day and avenge the loss of our military honour.

As soon as we gave up our weapons, the Soviets’ attitude towards us

changed. It happened so fast. We found ourselves marching in a column,

guarded by the NKVD officers. It then dawned on us that we  had just

become captives of the enemy.

8

* * *

The news of our disarmament and internment spread fast across

the  towns and villages. In no time our families organised pilgrimages

that would deliver us food, clothing and tobacco.

Every day new visitors arrived. They waited outside and hoped desper-

ately for a faint chance to speak to their loved ones. Those brief encoun-

ters, to the sound of crying, often left us tearful.

Our stay in Miedniki came to a sudden end when the order to march

was given. In the morning we were formed into long columns and

the arduous march began. The number of guards had increased and there

was literally no chance of escape. A tight row of guards, armed with loaded

machine guns, was escorting the column of prisoners. It’s hard to describe

the mood. Some appeared calm, some despondent. To add to the misery,

the heat was unbearable, as were the cries of our girls, walking in groups

by the side of the column.

In the afternoon we finally reached our destination, which turned out

to be Kiena railway station. Carriages with barbed wire in the windows

had been prepared and were waiting on the sidetracks. We were rushed

inside, fifty “passengers” per wagon, and the door was slammed behind

us and locked with a cast-iron bolt. There was a small hole in the floor for

the obvious purposes. We still had no idea where the transport was going.

The one optimist among us – Sęk’s father – kept saying we were going to

Persia, and then through Palestine to Italy or Africa. That optimism rubbed

off on some of us. The near future turned out to be completely different.

* * *

Six days later we reached our destination. There were about forty of us in

the group. At first glance, the place looked horrendous. 4, maybe 5 a.m. –

we got off the train. We were paired up and made to march.

11

Eventually, we saw a  large bonfire behind a  fence. There was a  gate

armed with barbed wire and a  watchtower next to it. We passed the

gate and stopped by the fire as ordered. There was a  brief pause, after

which a short officer resembling a bulldog – Lieutenant Colonel Bulga-

kov, battalion commander for political affairs – appeared in front of us.

The guards shouted: “Attention! At Ease!”

Bulgakov then announced: “This is the place for the likes of you, and

you will stay and live here for a long time! Your first job is to build your

own dugout and furnish it, build beds, and fix the interiors, so… get work-

ing, you’ve got seven days.” We had no idea whether or not it was long

enough, but we were soon to find out it wasn’t.

After his speech and a short wait, we heard an alarm that was announc-

ing the start of the working day. Sleepy inmates began emerging from

their dugouts.

I was terrified to see the extent of physical damage the past few months

had done to our friends. Perhaps the darkness and the flames exacerbated

the sight, but even after rubbing my eyes a number of times I still found

it hard to recognise some of my closest friends. Their hollow eyes, their

emaciated and pale faces made them resemble Auschwitz prisoners. Was

I going to end up like them? At that very moment I decided I would escape,

and from then on that thought did not leave me; it became my aim and

my hope for survival.

* * *

It was a sad Christmas Eve, but I knew things could get even worse. Luckily,

the temperature in the dugout was still above freezing, but outside, where

most of us slept cuddled up by the fire, it was reaching -20˚C.

We started the construction by lighting a massive fire to melt the fro-

zen soil. It took about a week, during which time we slept by the flames.

12

We spent the days preparing logs that could be used for building walls,

floors, beds, and ceiling. Defrosting the ground was the hardest task as

it was frozen deeper than one metre below the surface. Once that was

done, we needed another seven days or so to complete the construction,

so altogether it took twice as long as anticipated before we could sleep

inside. Devising a  tight door was a  big challenge, but we managed that

somehow. The biggest problem was the heating – even with thirty men

in the closed space we kept the temperature barely above zero.

Our dugout was about 1.5 metres under ground, topped with a sloping

roof covered in fir branches and soil. A set of steps led to the entrance.

There was a  little corridor running along the length of the chamber,

and bunk beds stood at each side of it. Right by the entrance, on the

left, was the commander’s station. Further down the same side stood

a  barrel that served as a  wooden stove. It was filled with clay to keep

the heat for longer.

The beds were made out of small logs. We were not allowed to peel

the bark, but only to hew the knags. We were to sleep without any bed-

ding, of course, and strip down to underwear at curfew to prevent any

escape attempts.

After the first few days we were determined to improve the sleeping

arrangements. We would pair up, use one coat to cover the top half of our

bodies, and the other coat to cover the remaining half. Wadded trousers

served as a mattress, and hats as pillows. We slept cuddled up, often turn-

ing at the same time without even waking each other up.

* * *

It was still and quiet, no one around. Suddenly Tolek came out of hiding.

We fell into each other’s arms, and he whispered: “We’re running away,

it’s all planned, I will tell you the details once we’re out of here. If anyone

15

asks  – we do not know each other, we’re definitely not related, and it’s

pure coincidence we share the last name.”

We crossed ourselves. Thus began a new stage in our lives.

* * *

A few kilometres in we started worrying they might already be look-

ing for  us. Suddenly Tolek noticed a  boat tied to a  large pale, floating

on the  Oka. The boat was small, but a  boat nonetheless. The four of us

wrestled the pale, and as it gave way, we jumped into the boat and set off.

Paddling with a  plank we ripped off the seat, we slowly steered away

from hated Kaluga.

We made it across the river relatively quickly, considering it was much

wider than the Wisła. When we got close to the other side, we lay low and

let the boat float some two kilometres down with the current before

disembarking onto the sandy shore. We walked until the break of dawn,

having agreed to move only during the night in order to avoid contact

with people. After eating half a rusk each, washing it down with hot water

boiled over the fire, and smoking a cigarette, the first two went to sleep,

while Tolek and I kept guard.

We began planning our next move. Tolek rolled out a map he had sto-

len from the barracks and studied the route carefully. He reached into

his pocket and took out a makeshift compass. He’d made it by wrapping

a piece of wire onto a needle and sticking its two ends in a socket, which

magnetised the devise. With such topographic tools at hand we felt we

stood a chance of making it.

* * *

We reached a plain overgrown by bushes next to a meagre forest. Uncer-

tain whether there might be a  settlement nearby, we  hesitated before

eventually making a  small fire. In normal circumstances one can hear

dogs barking and cockerels crowing in every village. The hum of human

activity can usually be heard from afar, but here? In  Russia people are

afraid of one another, thus life here goes on in complete silence and

anxiety. By that time people had already eaten most of the living crea-

tures: dogs, cats, storks were all gone.

* * *

Surprise at dawn – hard to believe – but indeed, we came to a huge river.

Tolek checked the map and realised he’d missed a piece of crucial infor-

mation on it – Kaluga region is rich in iron ore, which can alter magnetic

readings by up to 40%. It turned out we’d been moving in the wrong direc-

tion. From that day we decided to rely only on the stars.

The North Star was our guidepost, the handle of the Big Dipper showed

us the time.

Our biggest concern was how slow we’d been advancing so far. Tolek

calculated we’d need three and a half months to cover the distance, which

meant we’d get home in mid January, or Christmas at the earliest. That

was obviously out of the question; we desperately needed to come up

with a new plan. The nights were already very cold, drenched in constant

rain. How were we going to cope when the snow or hail came? Yet despite

those worrying prognoses, we were still filled with optimism, and Wińka,

humorous by nature, made us laugh over and over again.

* * *

The further journey brought about a  nice surprise. After marching all

night, we came to a  deforested field full of haystacks. In Russia hay is

stored in such a manner over winter, and then brought back to the farm

for cattle to eat in the spring. We agreed it was too good an opportunity

16 17

to miss, and so we dug a hole in one of the stacks and moved in. Inside we

made two chambers. Needless to say we all fell asleep straight away. I have

no idea how long we slept. Suddenly we heard Wińka’s characteristic whis-

tling. He heard some women talk by the haystack. They’d been intrigued

by the sound of snoring coming from within, and decided to report it

back at the kolkhoz. Wińka’s alarm immediately got us all up. In order to

entice its citizens to be vigilant, the Soviet authorities offered a reward:

16 kilograms of flour for each captured suspect. It was an extremely pre-

cious reward, so everyone was on a constant lookout for potential crimi-

nals, deserters, and fugitives. Wińka undoubtedly saved us from imminent

disaster. Stories of hags with pitchforks or other tools incapacitating

even the strongest of men were common. There was a  saying that one

should never pick a  bone with Russian women because they were just

nasty. We jumped out of the haystack and ran for it.

* * *

After midnight we came to a ravine, which turned out to be a small river.

There was a bridge in the distance. We were vigilant – bridges are usually very

well protected. We had crossed a few of those with extra caution already, but

our worries had always turned out to be unnecessary. Gingerly, we stepped

onto this one. Half way across it, we heard the click of a loading gun and

a loud “Hold it or I’ll shoot.” We stopped. An armed soldier approached

from behind, and two more came from the opposite direction. We’d made an

unforgivable mistake – we’d allowed ourselves to be surprised like novices.

Tolek shouted “Run!” and simultaneously pushed the officer down,

causing him to lose his balance and tumble down the bank. At the same

time, I kicked the armed soldier in the most sensitive part. He bent over,

grabbed onto the railing and groaned in pain. Immediately we dashed over

to the other side of the bank. Unlucky for us, there was a  river flowing

18

under the bridge, but  it wasn’t deep. As I was running down the slope

I remembered to keep hold of my cap, as my shaved head might give us

away easily. We heard some shots.

* * *

We were alive, but what had happened to our ambushed friends? Tolek

felt something sticky on his hand. In the light of the flames I noticed his

hand was bleeding; it turned out his left forearm had been shot through.

The experience had been so intense he hadn’t even felt any pain.

To add to his suffering, Tolek’s torn ankle ligament had been severely

strained. As we sat by the fire, I undid his shoelaces and watched his legs

swell up immediately. By the morning they looked like two balloons filled

with liquid. There was no way he could walk, especially when the damned

fever kicked in. We decided to put our escape plans on hold until Tolek

got better. We relocated to a comfortable spot; I made a fire and combed

the area for anything we could burn. A little puddle at the bottom of the

ravine provided us with drinking water. I also cleaned Tolek’s shot wound,

and to our surprise it never got infected.

“Hospitalisation” took three days, by the end of which the swelling

slowly subsided, as did the pain, and our moods lifted slightly. It had

definitely helped to have a substantial stash of tobacco. We chain smoked

our pipes and thus kept the flame going. Smoking somehow reduced the

sensation of hunger. It also numbed Tolek’s pain.

* * *

The autumn had advanced and the conditions outside were changing.

Shorter days, colder nights, constant rain, and the ground in the morning

would be covered in frost. As we pressed on, we made the decision to use

only one match a day, enough to make a fire, cook a meal, dry our clothes,

21

and chain-smoke as much as we liked. We also ran a thorough inventory

of our supplies, and discovered three extra rusks in the process. We broke

them into small pieces and sucked on those every other day. They tasted

just like Christmas cake. While Tolek lay immobilised, I managed to for-

age a few cranberries. I picked some rowanberries, which had lost their

bitterness due to the frost. They tasted delicious. So did the few mush-

rooms baked on sticks, despite the lack of salt.

Yet we seemed to succumb to pessimism more easily than before.

We talked less, drifting into our own thoughts.

* * *

We heard a  train whistle. The night turned a  little lighter and I drifted

off the sleep. I woke up very cold. The first snowflakes were falling down.

How fast the time had flown! It seemed we’d only just been discussing

our escape plans and now winter was already upon us. I stoked up the fire

and woke my brother up. He looked at me with a serious face and said:

“We have to change our strategy. It will take us until February if we carry

on like this, and we won’t survive that.” Suddenly we heard the sound of

a cracking twig. Then another one. We put the fire out, expecting the worst.

What if it’s a human? Push came to shove, we’d fight, we had two sharp

knives, but should we kill? A living witness would definitely land us in

trouble. To our relief, when our eyes got used to the darkness, we realised

it was just a  huge moose. It  stretched its neck and announced its pres-

ence with a thundering roar.

* * *

We wanderered around the train station for a  few hours, pretending to

be disabled. Tolek had devised a  crutch of sorts, which made walking

easier – his torn ligaments were playing up again. He hobbled towards

22

a little market. It was busy with kolkhozniks and their carts, some coun-

try women, everyone looking to trade. Tolek returned within half an hour,

carrying in his hand a real treasure in the form of a slice of bread – must

have been over half a pound. It’s hard to describe how much we savoured

that taste. We ate it very carefully, making sure not a  single crumb fell

down to the ground. A real feast, considering it was the first piece of bread

since the ambush on the bridge, when all our supplies had been lost

along with our two companions. Alas, as soon as the bread was finished,

we experienced a new wave of intense hunger. We decided to risk contact

with people again. Tolek went back to the market while I remained hid-

den. He came back, smile on his face, with another slice of bread. He also

bought a burger. We could not identify what meat it was made of, but it

surely was something rather suspicious.

* * *

We met a railwayman by the tracks. I approached and asked him in Polish

if he knew from where a train to Lida might be running. He paused for

a moment, and then replied in the most lilting east borderland dialect:

“Well, from this track they usually leave for Minsk and for Wilno – just

ask the driver.” On hearing “Wilno” my heart skipped a beat – dear God,

might we really see our beloved city again?

Soon enough a Lida-bound freight train had been assembled and was

ready to go. At that time all westbound trains were travelling empty, while

the returning ones were filled with loot. Jumping inside was easy enough,

and they were usually unguarded. It was a  real luxury to have a  whole

wagon to ourselves. Soon the train began its rhythmic monologue: “Travel

faster, travel faster, let these boys find what they’re after.” We were so

excited we no longer felt sleepy. Dear Lord, to get home, to  see our par-

ents and sister, and to finally stop running and being scared!

25

* * *

When we realised the location, we quickly jumped off the train and ran

down the little slope. We sat down under a tree. What a feeling – we are

in Ponary forest and we are alive! How would they receive us at home?

They had no idea we’d escaped, but at the same time we had no idea that

all of our family had already left.

I entered the chamber first. Grandmother was standing in the kitchen,

making a  fire, as I greeted her in a  loud voice. She turned around and

asked: “Who are you after?” Slightly taken aback by that question, I said:

“It’s me, Wicik Iwanowski.” Grandma took a  good look at me and just

stared, silent and surprised. I noticed she looked different. Then I heard

the dreaded truth: “The owners have left for Poland a long time ago, now

we are the landlords here, and what are you two doing here at this hour?”

We were speechless.

* * *

Our first impression of Wrocław was unpleasant. Pedestrians everywhere,

some wearing white armbands, marking them as Germans. Poles wore

white-and-red bands. The city was in ruins as far as you could see. Exactly

like Warsaw.

Serendipity, what a  coincidence! We could not believe our eyes,

but from across the street we saw Lolek Jarmołkiewicz smiling at us.

The same Lolek I had planned an escape with; the same best friend I had

experienced so much with. He had escaped earlier, in July, and with a dif-

ferent group, when I was helping Cyganko recover and therefore could

not come along. That unexpected meeting was extremely enthusiastic.

He  offered to take us to our parents’ house – he had been there ear-

lier that very morning to give them some comfort and hope about our

absence.

26

Lolek rang the doorbell and came in first. He said he was in a hurry, but

asked if she would be willing to host two random civilians he had met,

let them rest and shower. Mama was surprised to see two lads in the hall-

way, but kindly invited us in. We walked into the living room and she closed

the door behind us. That’s when she first looked at our faces. She froze. First

she rubbed her eyes, and then looked at us again. She looked away and

then back at us, a number of times, before suddenly bursting into the most

intense hysterical cry. It took us a long time to eventually calm her down.

Our dad came back from work in the afternoon, bringing a tin of soup

with him – something most railwaymen received at their canteen. Once

he washed himself and sat down to eat, we came into the room. He stood

up, speechless, looking at us, his sons, alive and well. That was the first

time I had ever seen his tears.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

I’ve done it for personal reasons. It’s neither an act of heroism, nor a great

achievement. Such was life, at that particular time, for that particular

group of people.

Conflict seems unavoidable. It’s happened in the past, and it will hap-

pen again. It’s constant. As if they could not live without it.

And Ponary… did you go there?

After the escape, having settled in Poland, I went back to visit Ponary.

And our house was still there. It was made of two houses. One had three,

and the other had two bedrooms. And that three-bedroom house was now

shared between three new families. Nothing but memories.

And then I went to Ponary by myself. And I’m walking through the

village, thinking “God, this is so different…” Familiar houses had van-

ished, or most of them anyway, but ours was still standing. So I’m walking

From an interview with Wiktor Iwanowski. Recorded in Szczecin, December 2013

29

30

up to it, and I see a rugged man standing outside, ripped clothes and all,

and he’s just standing there, saying nothing. So I say “I used to live here.”

And then I see his eyes well up with tears. “We came from around Minsk,”

he says, “The whole village had been burnt down, and I’ve found myself

here, in Ponary…”

People keep on returning. There’s plenty to revisit and reminisce.

The  chapel is still there. It was in ruins, but still open for service. Such

memories, you know, down from the chapel into town, there used to be

a  winding road there. It’s gone now. And up on the hill there was that

brick house, and  Russian soldiers were stationed there before the war.

Before the world war.

Many things pass irreversibly.

Our mama was from Podjółka. And that’s where we headed. There

was nowhere safe to go. You could get into trouble anywhere. Once when

Tolek was out, a Russian soldier paid us a visit… That happened to Borys.

He escaped and came back to Wilno, back to Ponary, and they caught him.

He was sent to a coalmine for 3 years. He had Buerger’s disease. No, they

didn’t amputate his leg. He just died like that…

And that’s how it goes. Life goes by and fate keeps changing. There

isn’t much of a choice, is there?

Right now, I don’t think I can piece it all together anymore. It’s get-

ting hard to recall events through memories. Yet I’ve left a  mark. But

what to  do with it? Give it away to a  museum or somewhere? But who

will have it? No one needs it…

And so I look at myself now – 87 years old. My dad didn’t live this long.

And I am still here, still wandering around this world. I’m still alive. And

so is Krysia, she’s 84, no, 85. A very respectable age. Most of our friends

are already six feet under. But we’re still going.

It’s really happened.

Šiauliai

Mława

Lida

Baranovichi

Warsaw

Riga

Vilnius

Wrocław

Last night I dreamt I stabbed a man, repeatedly, with knitting needles.

The carriage is full and sleepy. People’s heads bob gently as we’re leaving the station. Liski. I smile at a woman opposite. She looks away. So does the cadet on the right. A sore reminder that war is always on standby, always one order away.

I see a dark hole in the forest floor. It turns out to be an old grave. Filled with rubbish bags.

It is not one discomfort that defeats you. They take you down like a pack of dogs.

The mulch under my foot would crunch and I kept thinking I was walking on bones, as if this land was nothing but a vast graveyard – a calcium legacy of reverting atrocities. And I looked around at those fields, covered in patches of snow, and at the stones sticking out – for people to throw at one another, for people to mark where they bury their dead.

I stopped by a statue of a scrawny angel. It was looking down on me with bulging eyes and a sulking lip. A few metres to the left stood a cross, with the holy mother in a little wooden house, perched like a bird, holding her son. On a tree behind her, a crow had weaved her own nest, and they were two neighbours, two mothers, one with a dead child.

I get to Paneriai and wander aimlessly for a while. Heavy caps of snow cover the trees. It is still and silent. I find the pits and stand there for a minute, feeling inadequate. More people were shot in this forest than there are trees in it. A group of dead for each pine, clinging like pasty children to a skinny mother.

The monotony of walking is taking its toll on me. Trees and pylons move persistently across my peripheral vision, like a giant metronome, counting down a maddening rhythm. I begin to hear the muted sounds from deep within my body, as if transmitted from the centre of the earth through my heavy feet. That’s where all the pain radiates from. I start talking to myself. The mind goes to strange places if you have no one to keep it in check.

Fishing a drowning moth out of a puddle. Paying off some sort of debt.

A pontoon bridge frozen into the lake creaks and moans as I step on it. Like a snake, struggling to release itself from the grip of a hundred firm hands along its body.

Clear of People — Michal Iwanowski

In 1945, my grandfather, Tolek, and his brother, Witek, escaped from Soviet captivity and crossed over two thousand

kilometres on a fugitive journey home. This is not an unusual story. There are no heroes in it, and there is nothing

glorious about the events. You have seen it happen before, and you will see it happen again.

Seventy years later, I followed his footsteps. I did it for personal reasons, hoping that if I walked long enough, I might

find him, tell him it mattered. Hoping that the landscape might connect me to a time, and people, long gone. But what

had started as a quiet tribute soon turned into a meditation on the strength of the human spirit. How do you carry

on when your body gives up? What hope drives you blindly forward when your life is so obviously disposable?

I have no interest in judging history, nor am I interested in glorifying my relatives. But just what happens to all those

people who, one day, wake up to war? There is no room in our history books for them. They fade into the landscape

that witnessed their struggle. They remain but ghosts, navigating their way home. East. West. North. South.

This book is theirs.

This book was made possible with the kind support of the Polish Cultural Institute, London and Antalis AS, Riga Published in March 2017 by Brave Books, Berlin. Edition of 700 copies. © Michal Iwanowski, 2017. © Brave Books, 2017

Edited and designed by Brave Books, Berlin. Colour separations by Raimundas Austinskas, Kaunas Typeset in Soleil by Wolfgang Homola / Type Together and FF Tundra by Ludwig Übele / Monotype The paper is Tintoretto Ceylon Wasabi 250 g/m2, Scandia 2000 White 130 g/m2, Woodstock Noce 140 g/m2 and Cyclus Offset 80 g/m2. Printed and bound by Kopa, Kaunas. ISBN 978-3-00-053351-8

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