THE RED POPPIES OF MONTE CASSINO - Kresy-Siberia...

THE RED POPPIES OF MONTE CASSINO

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This is a short story of my father’s – Karol Jastrzebski -

long journey back home during World War II.

Karol Jastrzebski


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The story began in a small town of Chodel in the eastern part of Poland where my

parents, my brother and I lived.

On the 15th of August 1939 when the threat of imminent war became apparent my father

was called up to join the Polish Army in Lublin, 50 km away from home. Soon after on

the 1st of September 1939 the German forces invaded Poland crossing our boarders by

land and by air. My father’s division was ready to be moved to the western front but the

army officials allowed some of the soldiers to go back home for final one day visit. On

the 3rd of September 1939 dad came home to say goodbye. Although I was only 6 years

old at that time I still vividly remember holding my father’s hand very tightly all the way

to the bus stop. I didn’t want to let it go. With his soft but deep voice my father kept re-

assuring me that the war will soon be over and we will be together again. He asked me to

help my mother at home and take good care of my two year old brother. I loved my father

dearly so when the bus arrived there was no end to hugs and kisses. My brother and I

couldn’t comprehend why he had to go. We kept waving until we could see the bus no

more.

The days and months passed by and we didn’t hear a word from dad. Our house was

taken over first by Russian and later by German soldiers. Life was very hard. My mother

was left on her own to look after the livestock and the small farm. Despite my young age

I had no choice but to do the house chores, learn to cook and look after my brother. I

cooked standing on a stool as I could barely reach to the top of the cooker. Months

became years, still there was no sign from my dad but we never lost hope that he was still

alive somewhere….At last in the spring of 1942 the first note arrived containing just one

sentence “I am as healthy as…( someone’s name) and well as….( another person’s

name)” The names he mentioned were of the local beggars. We understood the message.

He was afraid to write more as he didn’t want to expose us to the danger of deportation to

Russia, of which at that time we had no idea. Then it went quiet again. Another year

passed and we heard nothing. My mother was desperately seeking any information about

his whereabouts. She was in touch with the Red Cross but they were also unable to locate

him. There was nothing else left for us but to keep our hopes alive, so every night the

three of us prayed on our knees for his safe return home.

My father’s long journey began on the 17th of September 1939 when Stalin made a pact

with Hitler to split almost defenceless Poland between Russia and Germany. On that day

the Russian Army crossed the Polish border and took over the eastern part of Poland. The

Germans were advancing from the West, easily defeating the Polish forces that were

unprepared for this war. All Polish soldiers retreating to the East from the Germans

attacks unknowingly found themselves under Russian occupation. Poland as a country

ceased to exist. The train on which my father’s division was travelling was stopped in the

middle of nowhere and was surrounded by Russian soldiers who gave them orders to

disembark, disarm and leave all their personal belongings. Soon after, they were told to

form columns and march towards the nearest town, Dubno. They walked the whole day

and night without food or water, exposed to verbal abuse and rough treatment. Russian

soldiers had strict orders not to talk to their prisoners. For the Poles the whole situation

was worrisome and very confusing. They were still on what used to be Polish territory


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but somehow the Russians were in command. Despite these circumstances they still

hoped to be put on the next train back home. After a few hours’ rest they were told to

march again towards an ex-Polish military outbuilding where they stayed for a few days.

Nothing was disclosed, no explanation was given except for intensified questioning by

Russians regarding the rank of each prisoner. They wanted to know the identity of the

Polish officers. Having received no co-operation from the Poles, they “identified” higher

ranking officers by their “smoother-looking” hands. Thousands of them were quietly

executed in Russian prisons and forests. The Russian communist government had plans

for occupied Poland and its citizens. Hundred of thousands of Polish intelligentsia,

teachers, high-ranking army and police officers, wealthy land owners with their entire

families, were deported deep into Russian territory, to work in factories and forests as

forced labour.

On the 26th of September 1939, my father’s division was on the move again. They

boarded the cattle train to a yet again unknown destination. Due to the lack of windows

they found it difficult to recognise in which direction the train was going. For the next

few days they remained hopeful that they would see their families soon, until someone -

judging by the sunrise and sunset - worked out that they were travelling to the East, not to

the West. One day, after what seemed to be a never-ending journey, the train stopped at

Novogrod station. It was now apparent that they were in Russia. Fifteen thousand Polish

soldiers found themselves far from the Polish border. They stayed in Novogrod’s transit

camp for a few months, working as forced labour, building and repairing local roads. My

father met a few of his friends there. Their living conditions were appalling. They slept in

barracks that didn’t have any heating. The makeshift beds had no pillows or blankets.

Soldiers used their coats and slept close to one another to keep warm at night. Food was

rationed and normally consisted of hot broth with a small slice of bread. The Poles still

had no idea what was in store for them. Life in the “unknown” brought feelings of apathy

and nostalgia. The Russians kept their captives’ fate top secret.

From Novogrod, the prisoners were transported by train to Zaporoze, a big industrial

town in central Russia, well-known for its steel industry which required a large

workforce. Again, with no explanation whatsoever, the Poles were told to disembark and

march towards the barracks, their new living quarters. Each barrack had two-storey beds

sleeping four above and five below, with just enough room to accommodate 350 people.

The usual food ration of hot broth and a small slice of bread was now re-distributed

according to daily performance at work. Each soldier was given a round metal disk with

an identity number engraved on it, as well as a small identity book to record the

performance of daily tasks. Although the prisoners were obliged to have the disk and the

I.D. books with them at all times, they ignored these orders. The disks were threaded on a

wire and hung on the barrack walls, and the paper from the books was used to roll

tobacco. The camp was fenced and guarded by Russian soldiers. A few tried to escape

but they were quickly caught, as no Russian was willing to help the Poles. The escapees

were locked away in dark and overcrowded “Punishment Barracks”. They were now

prisoners of war.


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When the Russian soldiers guarding the camp were replaced by the secret service unit,

the whole camp went on strike. The Poles didn’t want to be treated like political

prisoners. They were soldiers in captivity hence, according to the international

convention, they should be treated as POW’s. The Russians didn’t like the Poles’ attitude

and the repressions that followed were very harsh. Those who didn’t go back to work

were sent to the overcrowded “Punishment Barracks”. Each barrack contained three to

four-storey beds, accommodating 600 people. In some barracks, soldiers slept on the

floor, under the beds. Those who were forced to go back to work, sabotaged their duties

by swapping work places. The situation continued until the secret service guards were

removed. However, one by one the Russian soldiers were eventually replaced by

members of the secret service.

One day, in May 1940, the accountants from the steel factory unexpectedly arrived in the

camp. They came to pay off the final wages and to give words of “encouragement” to the

Poles: “you are going to hunt the white bear” or “you will live there, but that is all” .

Nothing else was said to the Polish prisoners. Within a few days they were on a train

again. After a few days of travel in the overcrowded carriages, my father and the POW’s

arrived in another transit camp in Kotlas. Two days later they boarded barges. My father

never forgot this challenging journey. The Poles were packed like sardines, 1600 of them

per boat. There was hardly any place left to stand. It was dark and they were not allowed

to go on the deck. They were given only one meal per day. On the first day they were

given salted herrings and a slice of bread, but no water. On the following days they were

given boiled water or very watery soup with a small piece of bread. It took them four

days to reach their destination. They arrived in the POW camp in Nianda in the middle of

the deep arctic forest of Komi, in Western Siberia, four hundreds kilometres from Kotlas.

Their main objective was to build 1,200 km of railway track from Kotlas to Vorkuta.

Although it was the middle of summer, the nights were very cold. The prisoners slept in

tents or in earth dwellings which were dug deep into the ground and covered with wood

brought from the forest. The Russians planned to finish building the railway by October

1940, but this task was impossible to achieve. Due to the inhuman living conditions, lack

of proper food, clothing, heating, as well as temperatures reaching as low as minus 50C,

many prisoners died of pneumonia, and those who managed to survive had frostbite or

were simply too weak to work. Life was a daily struggle to survive. My father’s camp

wasn’t the only one in the area. There were many others full of captured Polish and

German soldiers, Gypsies, Polish and Jewish civilians, sometimes entire families were

deported from the territories occupied by Russians.

Who knows what could have happened to all of them if the war had not taken an

unexpected turn. In June 1941, Germany declared war against Russia. The Western allies

encouraged Stalin to sign a non-aggression treaty with the Polish Government-in-Exile in

London, thereby declaring an ‘amnesty’ and the release of all Polish soldiers and their

families from labour camps across Russia. They were to join the Russian Red Army to

fight against the Germans. However, the Polish General Anders, himself a prisoner of the

Russians, distrusted Stalin’s “good intentions” and argued with the Allies to persuade the


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Russians to let all Poles leave the USSR, and join British and Allied forces in the Middle

East.

In August 1941, all the soldiers from my father’s camp were released and transported to

Talica, by train on the railway track they had built. Then they travelled to a temporary

camp in Tatiszczewo, where they waited for all Poles to arrive from other labour camps.

Gen. Anders knew that this was the one and only chance for all prisoners to escape from

Russia. During this waiting time, the new 5th Infantry Division of the Polish Army was

formed. Gen Anders took this opportunity to address his soldiers in order to lift their

morale. My father remembered a few, well-known sentences from that speech – a speech

which gave him hope that he would return home one day. First of all Gen. Anders

addressed them as “soldiers”. He then told them proudly that “the time has come that the

Polish Army will be formed again”. He also said that “for the time being they have to

forget about the injustice and suffering they had endured, because their main objective

was to fight for a free Poland, however long it takes”. This speech brought irreversible

changes in the hearts of the soldiers. It brought back the high values each of them held

deep in their hearts, forgotten by years of hanger and mistreatment. It ignited high spirits,

despite the lack of strength in their bodies. They became restless, but they had no option

but to wait. Slowly, the influx of soldiers and their families from other labour camps

increased. In order to help many thousands of Polish and Jewish civilians escape from

Russia, the Polish Army enlisted them as families, but they were unable to help everyone

who arrived. Many civilians had to make their own way across the Russian border to

Syria and Iran. With winter approaching, the soldiers built brick fireplaces in their large

tents, to keep them warm. The main fuel was wood, which they had to find on a daily

basis. As the nearest forest was a few kilometres away from the camp, and the snow was

too deep to walk, they stole the wood from outbuildings and fences belonging to

Russians. When times got tough everyone, including high-ranking officers, took turns

walking to the forest, even in deep snow. With temperatures reaching minus 40C in

December 1941, the weakest and the ill were sent to the hospital in Tashkent. Food

rations improved slightly. The bread portions were bigger, soups contained bits of meat,

and each person was entitled to a few cubes of sugar, a real luxury. The Russians

provided small quantities of food, but only for the soldiers. Thousands of civilians were

left to starve. The soldiers did their utmost to share whatever they had with their fellow

countrymen.

In January 1942, very cold winds and temperatures as low as minus 50C forced them to

move again. This time the trains took them closer to freedom through Kazakhstan, south

to Uzbekistan, still within the USSR. The train stopped many times during the journey, to

pick up Polish civilians who were making their own way south from Siberia. My father

was deeply moved by their very poor physical state, “they were walking skeletons

covered in rags and lice, no words could describe them” he said. Many of them died of

exhaustion and dysentery during the long train journey. The dead bodies were left at the

next station, to be buried by Russians in unknown places. Parents had to leave the bodies

of their children, or children had to leave the body of their only parent, knowing that they

would never come back to that place again. The scale of personal tragedies was

overwhelming. Having survived many years in the harsh conditions of the labour camps


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in Siberia, they were dying on the way to freedom. In February 1942, they finally reached

Jalal-Abad station in Uzbekistan.

Russian Identity Card issued to Karol Jastrzebski in Jalal – Abad in 1942

The warm air was like a balm to their bodies. All civilians and sick soldiers disembarked

there to recuperate. The rest of the soldiers travelled on to Surak. Here, they waited for

further instructions from the Polish Chief of Staff. This prolonged recuperation time,

although much needed, made them restless. The soldiers wanted to join the battle

anywhere, just to be closer to home. The evacuation orders came in August 1942. They

boarded the trains again, this time heading towards the small port of Krasnovodsk on the

Caspian Sea. Russian oil tankers and coal ships evacuated the Polish refugees across the

sea to the small town of Pahlavi in Iran. The Iranian government had agreed to take a

small number of Polish soldiers, but they had not expected so many civilians, mainly

women and children, to arrive with them. Their condition was appalling. My father’s first

memories of Pahlavi were of a place with plenty of food and a variety of shops without

queues. As a result of the change of climate, many Poles suffered from dysentery, yellow

fever, chicken blindness and itching scabs. There were also many who were quarantined

with typhoid. Old clothes were burned, heads shaved and the British Army provided new

uniforms to the soldiers. The Red Cross provided fresh clothes and blankets for the

civilians. My father always fondly remembered the Iranians’ warm hospitality. For him

and many others, it was a “promised land”. Most of them kissed the ground when they

first stepped on Iranian soil. They were free at last! Many private individuals opened

their homes and shared whatever they could with the Poles. The Iranian government set

up different types of camps for the Polish soldiers and the civilians. Many orphanages

and schools were opened for the Polish children. My father told me that when he arrived

in Pahlavi, he suffered from bouts of high fever for which he had his own

medicine…plenty of ice cream.


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Karol Jastrzebski (on the right) with his friend wearing British uniforms.

The Polish Army now came under British command. In September 1942, by order of the

British Chief of Staff, Polish soldiers were sent to Khanaguin in Iraq, to secure the oil

plants and to start routine military training. This wasn’t an easy task in temperatures

reaching plus 50C by midday. The training was usually conducted in early morning and

the afternoons were spent at rest. It was too hot to be outside and not much better in the

tents. To make life more bearable, the inside walls of the tents and the mosquito nets

were regularly sprayed with water. The worst was still to come… the sandstorms…

however, after what they had endured, no heat or sandstorm could make them feel fearful

anymore.


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British Army Identity Card

In March 1943 the most distressing news reached the Polish refugees. The Russian

communist government announced that all Poles who were left in Russia had

automatically become Russian citizens and had no rights to leave the country. This also

applied to all Poles living in the territories taken over from Poland in September 1939.

Poles did not know that their destiny, as well as the destiny of their homeland, had

already been sealed in November of that year, in Teheran. The leaders of the Western

Allies (mainly USA and Britain by whose side the Poles fought for the freedom of many

foreign countries occupied by Germans)fearing the spread of communist ideas from

Russia, had secretly made a pact with Stalin to assign Poland within the zone of influence

of Communist Russia after the war. Tens of thousands of Poles lost their lives believing

that their ultimate sacrifice will bring freedom to Poland. Poles felt betrayed and angry

when the truth was revealed to them a year later. While still in Iraq, the Polish troops

were moved from Khanaquin to Kirkuk and then Mosul, where the Kurdish population

welcomed them very warmly.


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Photo from the camp in Iraq

Easter was coming and many Kurds opened their houses to celebrate this holiday with the

Polish soldiers. There was also an unexpected surprise: the Chief of the Polish Army,

Gen. Sikorski, arrived to inspect his troops. He promised to involve them in active

service soon. Unfortunately he died, along with his daughter, in a plane crash in Gibraltar

a few months later.

Gen. Sikorski inspecting Polish troops in Kirkuk, Iraq


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In Kirkuk , Iraq

At last in September 1943, the troops were on the move to Palestine via Jordan. They

stayed in Gaza but were free to travel around. They took part in different types of

training, specially organised for them, like first aid, telecommunication etc..

Souvenir from Palestine – Karol’s Jastrzebski photo on “Fifty Palestine Pounds”

The Poles also had time to travel to Tel Aviv where they could buy newspapers written in

Polish, listen to Polish radio, watch Polish movies, go shopping, and eat Polish food. At

that time Tel Aviv had a large population of Jewish immigrants from Poland so the Polish

language was spoken wherever they went. The Holy Land felt like home.


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Photo from Palestine

Photo from Palestine

In November 1943 the orders came from the British military under the command of

Gen. Montgomery to move part of the Polish troops to the small mountain village of

Bechuzzin in Lebanon. In these mountains they undertook tough training exercises,

teaching them to fight in a difficult terrain. Other soldiers learnt different skills necessary

for the planned actions ahead. As my father was approaching forty and had had some

medical training in Poland, he was assigned to take first aid courses. After Christmas of

1943, the troops were moved again, this time to Egypt. They spent almost two months in

the desert going through rigorous training. The excitement of imminent action dominated

the atmosphere in the camps. The Poles were more than ready. In February 1944 came

new orders announcing immediate travel to Port Said. From Port Said the Army boarded

the ships to Taranto Italy, just across the Mediterranean Sea. From Taranto, they were

transported to the small village of Toro near Monte Cassino, and accommodated in

private houses. Monte Cassino, with its monastery at the top of the hill, was an important

strategic point on the way to Rome. It was occupied and heavily guarded by Germans.

The British, American, French and New Zealand forces had fought there for months,

trying to take the monastery from the Germans. All assaults were unsuccessful and

almost impossible to accomplish, as Germans could clearly spot any tiny movement on

the hills and responded immediately with gun fire.


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The Polish Army, under the command of Gen. Anders, was on the front line for the next

planned attack, which had the secret code name of Hour “H”. Before the attack Gen.

Andres addressed his troops. My father told me the lines he most remembered: …”for

this action let the lion spirit enter your hearts….Keep deep in your hearts God, honour

and our homeland – Poland.… go and take revenge for all the suffering in our land, for

what you have suffered for many years in Russia, and for years of separation from your

families.” My father said that, after that speech, they were unstoppable and they proved

it!

The countdown to the code hour “H” began.

On the 11th of May 1944 at 11pm, the attack started with blasts from thousands of

artillery guns across Italy, from sea to sea. First the Polish 3rd Carpathian Rifle Division

was thrown into action on the hill code named “593” then the Polish Eastern Infantry

Division attacked. Hundreds of tanks provided fire cover. The noise of the continuous

blasts was overwhelming.

Before the attack, my father stood guard at the telecommunication post. When the attack

began, he assembled his men, as he was in charge of the medical unit, and prepared for

rescue action.

Karol Jastrzebski Polish Identity Card stating his rank and performed duties

as a leader of a medical team

In early morning, when the fire temporarily died down, the medical teams were able to

attend to the casualties. There were hundreds of them spread on the hills. In such

circumstances, the medics did what they could. They applied first aid, carried the injured

on stretchers to army ambulances, as well as brought down the bodies of fallen soldiers.


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It was a gruesome task to perform. After days of heavy fighting, on the 17th of May 1944,

the Polish forces broke through the German lines, took over the monastery, raised the

white and red Polish flag, and rang the monastery bell at the top of Monte Cassino. The

battle of Monte Cassion was over, British soldiers chased away retreating Germans and,

shortly after, the British flag was raised next to the Polish one.

This was one of the most significant turning points in World War II. From now on,

freedom from German occupation was within reach. The scale of lost lives for this

victory was unimaginable. My father shared with me some of the experiences he had had

with his dying comrades. For some, the victory was sweeter then death. Others begged

for help as they wanted very much to live, others wanted to share with my Dad their

happy memories of their homes in Poland, asking him to send messages to their families

once the war was over, and others who prayed and asked my father to pray with them.

Karol Jastrzebsksi Medal “Cross of Monte Cassino”

After the victory it was time to bury the dead. The cemetery in Aquafondale was full.

Many crosses had “unknown” written on them. To commemorate the Battle of Monte

Cassino, Feliks Konarski composed the song which every Pole, young or old, knows by

heart. I would like to quote a few lines:

“They went excited and angry,

They went to revenge and to kill

They went insanely stubborn

As always to fight for honour….


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The red poppies of Monte Cassino

Instead of dew, drank Polish blood

And on those poppies walked soldiers and fell

Because anger was stronger than death”…

In Italy

Karol Jastrzebski (on the left) with his friend in Italy

From Monte Cassino, the Polish Army fought the Germans all the way to Bologna, which

was eventually freed by the Polish Second Corps. The Italians, in appreciation, asked

many Polish soldiers to be the godfathers to their children. My father received such

honour from a family in a small Italian town called Forli.


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Italian Wedding Karol Jastrzebski with his friend at the wedding

After the victory in Italy, my father’s Division was sent to England. Regretfully, they

were not welcome there. They did their job alongside the British forces, now they were

dispensable. The British government considered them a burden to their country. Many

British citizens repeatedly told Poles “to go home”. The truth was that, for many years

they wanted nothing more than to go back home, but their country was now occupied by

Communist Russia, and they knew best what that meant as they had barely managed to

escape from Russian’s labour camps. They feared that on their return to Poland they

would be deported to Russia again, probably with their entire families. The New Zealand,

Australian and Canadian Armies accepted within their armed forces many Poles who had

decided not to go back to Communist Poland, and granted them citizenship in their

countries. However, the majority of Poles were marking time, as they desperately wanted

to be with their families but were also tormented by the memories of Siberia and were too

afraid to go back home. General Anders and the Polish Government in Exile in London

persuaded Winston Churchill to let their men stay in Britain for two more years.

Provisional camps were set up to accommodate the Polish troops and to provide them

with much-needed training, especially for many young soldiers whose education had

been disrupted by the war. Being unwelcome immigrants restricted their job

opportunities, although many of them were high-ranking officers, teachers, medical

doctors, engineers and intellectuals. Poles took any menial jobs available and any courses

that would further their education, as they needed some sort of stability in their lives

In April 1947 Russia, under pressure from the Western countries, granted an amnesty to

all Polish soldiers and freedom fighters in Poland, as well as abroad. “Free Passage to

Poland” was made available. Still many Poles remained hesitant. News was floating

around about Russian Secret Service repressions, imprisonment without trail, people

disappearing without a trace, general nationalisation, and prohibition of basic right to free


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speech, beliefs, and travel. For anyone wanting to start a new life after the devastation of

a long war, to live again with an enemy on their doorstep was a very brave thing to do.

Those who couldn’t face the separation from their families any longer boarded the first

available transport to Poland. Poles from the eastern parts of Poland, whose homes were

now in Russian territories, had nowhere to go back to. They had no choice but to apply

for asylum in Britain or to immigrate elsewhere. This is how the “Polish post-WWII

Diaspora” began.

Photos of Karol Jastrzebski “ waiting in England”

My father returned home, on a ship from Leith in England to Gdansk in Poland, on the

21st of April 1947.


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We were overjoyed with happiness. It felt like he had never left us, but it soon became

apparent that he was not the same man, and I wasn’t a little girl anymore. Our happy

memories ended long ago, at the bus stop in Chodel. I was in high school and lived at the

boarding school; my contact with home was very limited. I desperately longed for loving

feelings from my dad again. My father tried very hard to re-build his life. He tended to

the house, looked for employment, my sister was born, yet whatever he attempted to do,

he faced a brick wall.

Karol Jastrzebski with his wife Genowefa


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Not long after his return home, he was asked to report to the police for “questioning”,

after which, regular secret service visits to our house began. He wasn’t welcome in his

homeland. He was “an unwanted element” who experienced and knew too much. He

“was probably a spy” and had lots of foreign currency hidden somewhere, or he was

propagating “undesirable western ideas”. That’s how my father was treated by the secret

police. My father’s suffering during that time was hellish. At one point, long after the

war had ended, the secret police took him to the woods and, with a gun pointed at his

head, told him to reveal his “hiding place for gold”. Looking back, I think that he must

have been a very strong man to withstand all these intimidations. At first he talked about

his war experiences very vaguely and in secret. We learned more as the time went by.

On his return home my father brought with him a mixture of happy and sad memories, as

well as the items shown on the picture below.

He was awarded the following medals: the 1939-45 Star, Italy Star, Defence Medal and

War Medal 1939-45, as well as the Polish War Medal and Cross of Monte Cassino.

He brought home only the “Cross of Monte Cassino” which was awarded to those who

took part in the Battle of Monte Cassino. He had not collected the others, as he feared

reprisal form the Soviet-run security services.

The remaining medals have been recently collected by his grand-daughter.


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Copy of the letter from British Ministry of Defence

ALL MY FATHER EVER WANTED… was a quiet life and being surrounded by his

family and friends. Like any other soldier, he did his duty to his country by going to war.

Unfortunate circumstances took him through hell and back.

This story was recounted by Karol Jastrzebski’s daughter, Bogumila Jarosz, and written

by his grand-daughter, Izabela Spero ([email protected])

THE RED POPPIES OF MONTE CASSINO - Kresy-Siberia...

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