Chapter 1
Prewar Warsaw
Danuta looks through the window of a suburban house. Itâs very beautiful here. Neatly cut grass and the strip of wild forest embracing a small creek surround a large deck decorated with baskets of perennials. It is very quiet here. In fact itâs so quiet that itâs too lonely. A few years ago, she and her sick husband moved to live with their son in this elegant suburban house in Ohio. It is very comfortable here. In fact itâs so comfortable that she has become lazy.
At the turn of the millennium, Danuta spends most of her time in the armchair, waking up only to check the mail and make phone calls. She cannot write anymore but loves to read letters and watch TV Polonia. Only recently, TV Polonia began to broadcast, directly from Poland via satellite, a regular Polish TV program for worldwide audiences. Danusia watches TV Polonia non-stop. It gives her and hundreds of thousands of other Polish people scattered all over the world some sense of belonging, a distant and abstract community of their own, more of a virtual or semi-imaginary world.
Breathing heavily, she slowly scuffs along towards her armchair, her face twisted from exhaustion. The glare of the television screen brightens the gloomy room. As she slumps into the chair, a sonorous voice abruptly awakens her consciousness.
âOn the occasion of the sixtieth anniversary of the Katyn MassacreâŠâ She turns around confused. What occasion? What anniversary? A young reporter from the TV Polonia Evening News yells from the screen. âA special train carrying families of the Katyn victims arrived today at Katyn for the first official memorial ceremony.â Danusia holds her breath, staring wide-eyed at the screen. The camera zooms on a newly erected memorial wall covered with thousands of small plaques listing the names of the Poles bestially murdered by the Soviets in 1940. âThis is my husband,â a woman in her eighties cries out pointing to one of the plaques. Danusia hastily draws nearer the screen. âYou see,â the woman continues, âI was a happy wife for two years and a widow with two children for sixty years. This is a priceless moment in my life. I feel as if I am at last reunited with my husband. I brought with me today our two sons⊠They are already⊠in their sixties.â
Danusia freezes. The Evening News starts reporting on the official speeches given at the memorial ceremony by the Polish Prime Minister and a Russian official. âMy God! Finally, we got them back!â She whispers, quivering with emotion. Hastily she turns towards the closet, pulls out a small metal case, and scuffs back to her armchair.
The image of the aged woman pointing to her husbandâs name on the Memorial Wall haunts Danusia as she opens the compact box. The icy chill of the metal frame penetrates through her fingers. Her hand gropes frantically inside the box. Here it is, on the very top. She takes out a white piece of paper and unfolds it with devotion. In the brightness of the televisionâs screen, a circled portion of the text shines at her: âSierzant Julius, born 1912, son of Pawel, Second Lieutenant, N 462/21, T 653.â Julius, her first true love, her dream. Only now it occurs to her that his name must be listed on the Katyn Memorial Wall. But she still cannot grasp it or, rather, she doesnât want to. Only a few weeks ago, her son brought home this piece of paperâa copy of one page from the list of thousands of Katyn victims slaughtered by the Soviets in 1940.
Throughout all these years, she has wondered what could have happened to Julius. Never ever could she imagine that he met such a cruel martyrâs death. The memory of the magnificent officer vividly comes back. Closing her eyes, she tries to recall those happy summer days back in 1939 spent with Julius near Braslaw. His tall silhouette in the military uniform flickers in her memory. This fragile image of the handsome officer melts quickly with imagination and soon vanishes in cloudy recollection.
She folds the paper and looks inside the box. âWhere should I put you?â she ponders. As her fingers caress different photographs and documents inside, she instantly recognizes each of them just by a slight touch. Each one is distinct. Each one conjures up a unique emotional feeling. The collection starts with photographs from her 1939 vacation, and continues with her first marriage wedding pictures, the Auschwitz letters, the German death certificate, the Soviet death certificate, pictures of her cousins deported to Siberia or lost in action in Great Britain, snapshots of her friends and neighbors killed during the defense of Warsaw, in the Warsaw Uprising, and in numerous concentration camps. The collection ends with the wedding pictures from her second marriage.
Now, sixty years after the crime, she adds to her shrine of martyrs yet another face â a victim of the Katyn Massacre, a name from the list of about fifteen thousand Polish officers barbarically exterminated by the Stalinâs henchmen. That shot to the back of the head of the prisoner of war standing over the mass grave in an obscure forest is one of the most hideous crimes of World War II. Yet, it has been effectively kept from the public eye for generations, a cowardly policy not to upset the Russians at any price. This thought makes her shiver.
She pulls out the wedding photograph from the first marriage. âJoseph, darling, I am going to place Julius next to you and Dad.â She talks to a man looking at her from the wedding photograph. âJulius has just returned from oblivion and needs our extra care. I am sure you will welcome him here, next to you.â The dark content of the metal box is her most treasured possession. In moments of despair, she always reaches for this box, finding comfort within and deriving strength from it. A loud noise of the opening garage doors fills the room signaling the arrival of her son. She puts the photograph back and hurriedly places the white piece of paper next to it. âYes, thatâs precisely what you want me to do, good!â she whispers with relief. Doors open and a man in his forties waves to her.
âDaddy, Daddy, look, Iâve just won the battle,â Danusiaâs grandson yells from another room. âLook at the score!â
Danutaâs son slowly moves to the computer room and pats the boy on the shoulders. âVery good, Konrad! But thatâs enough for now. Did you practice piano today?â
Konrad gets up grumbling something.
âGrandma, did he play?â
Danusia makes a puzzled face. âI guess he has played, a little,â she replies with some hesitancy. In fact, she has been so preoccupied with her husband and then overwhelmed by the news that she doesnât really know. âThere was this news today about Katyn,â she relates quietly. âAn official memorial at the Katyn Forest. The camera briefly showed this new memorial wall with all the names listed.â
âReally?â Her son glances at her, unpacking his suitcase. An uncomfortable silence sets in.
âGrandma, I need your help!â Konradâs energetic voice breaks the discomfort. âI have a project to do. I must write a biography of a famous person. I thought I would write about Marshal Pilsudski and his victory in the Battle of Warsaw.â
âBattle of Warsaw, thatâs right. The 1920 defeat of the Red Army near Warsaw and the Katyn slaughter twenty years later, striking coincidenceâŠâ Danusia sighs with bitter sadness. She had been a history teacher for almost forty years. She bravely taught Polish history under the Communist regime and later in the Polish Sunday School in New York. History is her passion. She loves to tell the stories from the distant and not so distant past, and she does it with great eloquence and zeal. But today she doesnât feel like talking.
âYou love those battles, donât you, especially the victorious ones. But you know, Konrad, the essence of history is whatâs really behind those battles. Whatâs most important is why people fight those battles. Bring me that big red book from upstairs, Iâll show you something.â
Konrad already knows the big red book. Thatâs Grandmaâs teaching manual. He finds it instantly. She opens the book ceremoniously and slowly turns the pages.
âYou see Konrad, to me Pilsudski is not the symbol ...