Another Time

By Antonina Irena Brzozowska

Set in three continents, over an eighty-year span, this is a story of loss, guilt, shame, deception, love and the ultimate struggle for survival. Unable to accept his lot in life, in the midst of the desolate and desperate backdrop of Siberia, Stefan Jablonski plunges into a destructive spiral of betrayal and deceit. The silver pocket watch, given to him during his immigrant days in America, and always worn close to his heart, gives him comfort; but what secret link does it have with the past and why will it play such a prolific role in the life of his daughter, Magdallena, and that of future generations? How will the past, present and future interlink and how will time set the fate of generations?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jul 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781528967587

Antonina Irena Brzozowska

Antonina Irena Brzozowska was born and educated in the north-east of England. A former teacher, her interests incorporate the Polish, Canadian, and Hawaiian cultures and traditions. Her extensive travel experiences in these countries have provided her with an invaluable asset to her writing.

Book preview

Words/Phrases

About the Author

Antonina Irena Brzozowska was born, grew up and was educated in the north of England. Coming from Polish extraction, she has a strong interest in the culture and traditions of Poland. Currently, a supply teacher she has taken immense pleasure in writing, reading and travelling.

Dedication

In memory of my beloved parents, Antoni and Maria Brzozowski.

Copyright Information ©

Antonina Irena Brzozowska (2020)

The right of Antonina Irena Brzozowska to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528933728 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528967587 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2020)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

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Chapter One

Lithuania 1952

Hell was their night. In the formidable darkness elusive silhouettes were dragged from their homes and never seen or heard of again; neighbours cruelly snatched and hauled away to another distant hell where nobody wanted to go and from which no one ever returned; echoes of children’s stifled screams and muffled uncontrollable sobs haunting the eerie silence that followed their wake. Villagers were callously divided; those who were spared and those who were not.

Life for the Jabtonski family had become a never-ending expectancy of inescapable doom. Stefan’s old tired eyes stared out into the still, ominous blackness. They saw nothing. Jadwiga’s lips moved rapidly as small, wooden, rough beads passed through her gnarled fingers, her sore eyes prickling through lack of sleep; praying, constantly praying. Her only hope was her God. And, as far as Piotr was concerned, the only thought cramming and overpowering his conscious mind was how to confront, challenge and defeat the bastards when they arrived. He paced up and down the bare dusty floorboards — a young man of twenty with an old man’s tortured soul, his bloodshot eyes darting from window to door, finally resting on his father where they bore into the old man’s back: staring, hating; staring hard and hating harder.

His cold eyes shot to his mother. Her tired eyes were fixed on the small holy picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus propped against a cracked vase containing a bunch of dried, faded red roses; her arthritic fingers laboriously allowing the beads to move on, occasionally turning over a flimsy, yellowed page of her tattered old prayer book as her soft voice penetrated the young man’s troubled thoughts. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners; now, and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Amen; bloody Amen!

Piotr! Stefan boomed, a flush of red colouring his hollow cheeks as he banged his tightly clenched fist on the scuffed wooden table, sending the dried flowers awry Apologise to your mother; immediately!

A sneer played on Piotr’s curled lips as he stared contemptuously, daring the older man to challenge him. After long, cold seconds the younger man relented, his voice gruff and cold. Dobrze, dobrze; calm down, old man. Darting eyes flitted to the holy picture, now lying flat on the table. Staring hard with eyes of icy hatred he picked it up, spewed up a mouthful of spittle at the image and slew it on to the floor. If you think He is going to help, you’re all crazy lunatics, he snarled; his eyes darting from the picture to his parents, to his sister where two youngsters were burying their faces beneath their mother’s apron, not daring to catch their uncle’s eye. Piotr’s eyes flitted to his mother’s wan face. You better start praying to Stalin. He is our God now, mother. Stalin!

Jadwiga’s beads fell to the floor as she averted her eyes from her only son and stooped to pick up the holy picture, her only treasure; the only God in whom she placed all her trust. Fingers tightly clenching her beads, Jadwiga placed her hand on her husband’s shoulder. He’s young; he doesn’t understand.

He understands, Jadwiga; he understands.

Drenched to the skin, the hard rain lashed down relentlessly on Piotr’s patched shirt; his dirty trousers stuck to his limbs, brown sodden hair plastered on his head as he propped himself against the rough bark of an old apple tree, one foot tapping furiously, sending squirts of dirt gushing mud over his boots and trousers, his fingers clenched tightly in his wet pockets, his lips twisting as he said the same words over and over again: They’ll see; they’ll all bloody well see who’s right in the end. His fingers clenched tighter together in a vice-like grip as his thoughts turned to his father. He’ll damn well get his come-uppance. He seethed through clenched teeth, nodding vehemently. I’ll make damn sure of that. Roughly pulling a half-filled bottle of clear liquid out of his sodden pocket, he brought it up to his parched lips, his body trembling in eager anticipation of the substance as a clap of distant thunder and staccato flashes of silver lightning charged the black sky with sudden bursts of electricity, lighting up and giving an unexpected brilliance to the crooked branches of the old fruit trees. His body shook involuntarily as he took two gulps of the tasteless, fiery liquid, the potency of the substance mingled with the cold, pounding rain, giving his skinny body a grain of soothing mercy. Staring unflinchingly at the dark silhouetted boughs he snarled, his lips curled in a cold grin. Just like the old man’s gnarled, rheumatic fingers … old and useless. His dark eyes strayed across to the wooden hut as his sodden foot tapped vigorously, sending a fresh array of black slush onto his drenched trousers, as the heavy deluge continued to lash down in heavy sheets on the family home, Stefan’s beloved orchard and Piotr. As if attacked by a sudden bout of paralysis, his foot ceased moving and remained still in the sticky mud; his frantic eyes darted this way and that, he knew not where to rest them. There was something. Straining his ear to the right … nothing; and yet, there was something; a sound in the distance … silence. It must be my cholerny imagination. He swore between gritted teeth, his eyes wide open, his fists clenching and unclenching as he wobbled uncontrollably, one foot sliding, the other obediently following, as he slid into the murky mud. Cholera jasna! he roared, grabbing the nearest skeletal branch on his way down, forcing it to snap and sending him down on his backside, his vodka bottle following him like a faithful servant, the precious liquid seeping its way into the black slush. Psiakrew! he cursed, his black eyes staring wildly into the blackness surrounding him, his fingers frantically searching in the cold, sticky mud, trying to rescue the treasure he had lost. Chunks of black mud and cold slush caked his fingers, making them sticky and hard to move; slowly a smile rose to his lips as he felt the slimy hardness. Kneeling down in the slimy mess he brought the grimy bottle to his mouth and withdrew it. Psiakrew! he hissed, throwing the empty bottle to the black sludge below.

Five sets of eyes were upon him: young eyes; old eyes; knowing eyes; heartbroken eyes; innocent eyes. He stared at each in turn; finally, his eyes rested on his father’s cold stare. Oh, what the hell do you want? He hissed, turning abruptly, scrambling under his bed, his fingers running everywhere, desperately searching as his heart pounded in impatient anticipation.

It’s gone, son. Stefan stated in a clipped tone, his tired eyes staring down at the crumpled, sodden boy beneath his feet.

What the hell do you mean it’s gone; gone where? the young man demanded, his eyes rising to meet his father’s icy stare as eyes challenged eyes and every fibre in his body trembled with need. Gone where?

Gone; thrown out with all the other rubbish, announced Stefan, his exhausted eyes unflinching as he stared directly into his son’s unforgiving glare; his lips compressed into a thin determined line, not a muscle of his undernourished body moving.

Piotr’s grimy, mud-covered finger wagged furiously and unashamedly in his father’s face. I’ll get you for this, Stefan; I’ll damn well pay you back for this, he vowed between gritted teeth, his blood shot eyes glowering out of a mud-stained face.

It’s Tato to you, son, corrected Stefan.

You’re no damned Tato to me, hissed Piotr.

How dare you? Stefan raised a shaking fist. How …

Eyes locked with eyes; all eyes darted to the door, fear shadowed faces. Lilla’s panic-stricken voice broke the deathly silence. Mama, I hear them; they’re … they’re coming … they’re coming, aren’t they? Eyes shrouded with fear searched older eyes; wiser eyes, searching for reassurance. None came.

Quiet, child, let me think, boomed Stefan.

Ignoring her grandfather’s command, Lilla bawled uncontrollably. It’s the soldiers; they’re coming … they’re coming, Mama. She shrieked as tears filled her young eyes.

Shut that brat up! roared Piotr as his shaking hand retrieved a sharp-ended implement from the depths of a cupboard. Taking slow steps towards his older sister; his fiery eyes glaring into her eyes, his hand brandishing his weapon in front of her startled face, he hissed, Control that bastard of yours. Momentarily taking his eyes off his sibling, he stared at the sharp blade in his hand then pressed the point menacingly against her pale cheek.

Because, my dear sister, if you don’t control her; I swear I’ll kill her, together with the Rusaki.

Magdallena’s horrified eyes stared unblinkingly at the madman before her; Piotr, her baby brother; her worst enemy. Stretching out her arms, she beckoned Lilla and Józef to herself, her heart beating erratically as she asked herself: Against whom am I protecting them, the Rusakis? Piotr? Life? Her head shook slowly from side to side, her eyes fixed firmly on Piotr as hate pulsated throughout her entire body; and still, she stared at the loose cannon standing in front of her.

What the hell are you gawping at? Piotr thrust his dirty, contorted face before Magdallena, his inflamed eyes staring through her, a twisted grin on his face; cold, cruel and hard.

Be quiet! roared Stefan, his tired eyes sweeping across each member of his family and finally resting on Jadwiga. Our time has come, my dear. He nodded his head as if to convince himself of his own statement; his eyes taking in his wife’s frail face, her white woollen scarf shrouding her hair, emphasising the paleness of her skin. Our time has come, he repeated in a whisper. His eyes flitted to Piotr. It is time to be strong; it is time to stick together, son.

Piotr clutched the handle of the blade tighter, his eyes darting to the firmly closed door.

Jadwiga turned away from her husband and faced her beloved son. Though shorter in stature than the average male of his age, his spindly body overshadowed his mother’s frail frame, making her look even more fragile. She placed her aged hand over his, the web of veins clearly visible under the thin layer of her skin, her loving eyes beseeching.

Piotr; Piotruś, put that knife away. Please, son, put it away. Roughly he thrust her hand away so that it fell to her side as his hard, cold eyes met her eyes with cruel contempt.

Slowly, Stefan opened the creaking door, peering warily into the blackness of the night. His eyes saw nothing, his face feeling the cold lashing rain. Closing the rickety door, his body froze, his insides quivering like a jelly as his ears strained to hear the unmistakable sound coming from the far distance, drawing near; each passing second becoming nearer and clearer. Somewhere; he could not discern from which precise direction; he could hear the faint shouts and screams of women and children. Quickly, he locked the door. He knew only too well what was happening; what was about to happen.

In young Lilla’s head all the earth, throughout the entire world, was shaking, trembling, ending. Icy shivers engulfed her young body as she cautiously pulled the yellowed curtain, of the one and only small window, to one side with her trembling fingers, her bewildered eyes peering into the black night. Józef joined his sister. Mother and children stared at the dark advancing force which, with every second and marching footstep, was becoming more visible; strange, suspicious; hostile-looking silhouettes of men becoming real in front of their eyes. Abruptly, the marching stopped outside the door. The sound of gruff voices punctuated the still, tension-filled silence. Lilla held her breath so tightly it hurt.

Oh Boże Jadwiga prayed fervently, her lips moving rapidly and out of rhythm with the movement of her beads. Save the children; please, Boże, save the children.

Do you think they are going to shoot us now, Dziadzio? asked the young, pale-faced boy, his voice quivering as he stared wide-eyed through the small smudged window, fear gnawing mercilessly at his guts.

Sh, Józef, snapped Stefan, his voice edged with heavy tension, his eyes darting to his son.

And, for Christ’s sake, Piotr, put that blade away.

Piotr sat down at the table, the sharp blade glistening in the candle lit room, the glossy shades of purple and grey entrancing the young man as he twisted the wooden handle this way and that, in his clammy hand. Soon; very soon, there will be shades of red too; Ruski red, he vowed fervently through clenched teeth, his mouth contorted in a menacing grin.

They waited in the shroud of deathly silence as eyes flitted from one to the other, fear pulsating through each rigid body as they waited. The banging on the door reverberated throughout the small wooden hut and through their very souls. Eyes wide and rooted to the door, their ears were attuned to the demand of immediate entrance. Magdallena clasped her children tightly to her fast-beating chest. Jadwiga clasped her beads tightly to her heart. Piotr clasped his blade tightly in his hand.

Otwieraj! bellowed an impatient soldier.

Hastily lighting an oil lamp with trembling fingers, Stefan opened the creaking door and faced a beefy Russian officer, puffed up with good food and self-importance; his eyes stared at the stranger’s fleshy wattle on his thick throat.

Get out! roared the beefy Russian, grabbing Stefan’s scrawny arm in his vice-like grip and ushering him out into the dark, sodden orchard. You have two hours to vacate this dwelling, he snarled. In exactly two hours’ time this dwelling will no longer be in your possession; it will belong to the Communist authority. You will have no further right or claim to it. There is, of course, no right of appeal. Understood? Here, take one last look at your palatial surroundings.

The officer laughed coarsely as Stefan stared at the animal of a man before him, his conscious mind trying to make sense of it all. Two hours to leave his beloved home and farm; the home and farm he had built from scratch, after five gruelling years of hard sweat, hard toil and endless homesickness spent in America, trying to achieve security for his future family; two hours to leave the family home where his children and grandchildren were born; two hours to leave the place that he had thought would be his last resting place. All was to be brutally and callously snatched away from him in a couple of hours’ time and given to an authority he utterly despised and secretly denounced. No longer would this precious land belong to him; or, he to it. Where are we being taken to? Stefan knew the answer to his question; but, he needed to hear it from the mouth of authority towering over him, to begin to formulate and accept its reality in his mind.

With his podgy hand the burly officer pushed Stefan back into the hut and stared piercingly into his victim’s void eyes; a wide lingering smirk growing across his callous mouth, his eyes flitting to the rest of the occupants. You, my dear kulak, and your nice little family, are going on a nice little holiday to a place I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting myself. Aren’t you the lucky ones, eh? He grinned showing a set of yellowed teeth as his voice rose, becoming harsher. You are all to be transported to another area of the Soviet Union; destination, my friend, Siberia; duration, forever. He laughed loudly, his raucous laughter penetrating sharply through the very fibre of the people he was disdainfully eyeing up and down. Turning his heavy bulk in readiness to depart, he spied the holy picture propped against the vase on the table. Hooking it with the end of his revolver he threw it on to the dusty floor and, stamping over it with his mud clogged boot, he abruptly turned and, laughing loudly, added, My friends, you will travel first class, of course. He turned to leave, his laughter echoing in everyone’s ears.

No! We will not travel first class; or, any other class. We are not your cholerne slaves, bawled Piotr, his hand reaching out to obstruct the officer from departing. The burly man stopped in his tracks, swivelling his massive frame around to witness raised voices and scuffles; as, summoning an inner strength he never knew he had, Stefan knocked Piotr to the floor, involuntarily grabbing the officer’s bulky arm to secure his own balance.

What did that runt just say to me? demanded the officer, shrugging off Stefan’s hand, staring disdainfully at Piotr’s crumpled body on the floor.

Looking squarely into the big man’s eyes Stefan pleaded, Please … please, Sir, he meant nothing; he meant nothing at all. Please, Sir …

The Russian relented and stared unblinkingly at the frail, old man before him. You have two hours. He spat and thrust his way back towards the door. Suddenly, without warning, his huge bulk reeled unceremoniously down to the floor as Piotr, eyes of fury and fire, a sharp blade in hand, ran out of the hut, directly into the arms of two hefty soldiers.

Psiakrew! cursed the officer. I’ll kill the cholerny bastard. Grabbing the rough leg of the table, he attempted to rise, only for his legs to give way and his gross bulk to slide down into an unsightly heap. Cautiously, Jadwiga approached, extending her frail hand. It was thrust roughly away. Puffing; panting; glaring; cursing and promising untold revenge he finally rose, dusted himself down and walked out the door. He towered over the young man as eyes glared into eyes.

Dangerously brandishing his shining weapon of honour, waving it proudly in the fat face before him, Piotr announced, I am going to kill you; you Russian pig. I swear I am going to ki … He froze; eyes stark, body still and rigid, gleaming blade poised mid-air as heavy laden seconds dragged on. Inwardly his guts wrenched, twisting ferociously and unrelentingly as he stood transfixed, fear suddenly overtaking his body with alarming speed. The blade dropped from his trembling hand into the black slush beneath. A man’s gruff voice broke the nightmarish spell.

Please continue, my friend, I promise I shall not be the spoiler of your eloquent announcement sneered the officer, a sickly smile playing on his fleshy lips. Piotr’s fear-stricken eyes darted from the officer to his father, back to the officer and rested on his father; silently pleading, begging, needing.

Stefan took slow, faltering steps forward, his clammy fingers opening and shutting, his heart racing like a runaway train, his weary eyes resting on the stern eyes of authority. Please, Sir, he urged, his mouth dry, his trembling voice almost a whisper, Sir, my son, he does not know what he is doing; what he is saying. Forgive him, please … please … Prickly, hot tears involuntarily trickled down his creased, weather-beaten face. Please …

Shut up, old man, yelled the middle-aged Russian, his cavernous mouth twisted grotesquely, his eyes on fire. You! he pointed his black revolver at Piotr. Prepare yourself. He signalled to the waiting soldiers. After three.

Piotr’s stark eyes stared at his father, his only hope. None came. Closing his eyes firmly he drew in one long sharp breath, catching unforgivable drops of cold rain as he clamped his lips into a thin compressed line, lowered his head and awaited, with wild beating of heart, his fate.

Guns at the ready! bellowed the officer, his deep booming voice echoing mercilessly in Piotr’s swimming head as vomit stuck in his dry throat. Involuntarily, his eyes opened to a silhouette of motionless dark figures as thoughts, dreams, ambitions spun around and around in his light-headed head. One! boomed the officer. Time stood still. Two! All eyes focussed on the young rebel who was about to lose the only thing he had; his life. Black eyes scrutinised and bored their way into his very soul. His body numb; mentally and emotionally dead, he was already a corpse in the land of the living; he’d been dead inside a long time ago.

A blood-chilling scream pierced the deathly silence. Eyes fixed on Piotr darted to a shadow of a figure stumbling in the unrelenting, unforgiving rain; arms shakily outstretched, heavy booted feet trudging through the chunks of black mud, she pleaded, My son … my son … please spare my son … please …

Shut up! roared the officer, turning his bulky frame, focussing his revolver on the beggar. Who the hell are you? he snarled.

Jadwiga … Jadwiga Jabtonska. Piotruś’s mother. Please … please do not kill my son; my only son. She plodded on through the thick mud, her wet woollen cardigan and skirt clinging to her skinny body, the rain mercilessly lashing cruelly on her wan, tired face, her insides wrenching at the sight of the revolver pointing directly at the dearest person in her life; the son she loved above all else and everybody else; her Piotruś; her life.

Someone, remove this woman out of my sight, bawled the beefy Russian. Do you hear, out of my sight?

Immediately the two Russian soldiers approached and roughly grabbed Jadwiga by both her spindly arms. She tried desperately to wriggle out of her captors’ arms; they took a tighter hold of her wiry arms in vice-like grips. Please … she pleaded as hot tears streamed down the crevices of her wrinkled face, her insides wrenching and twisting pitilessly, her water-laced eyes fixed only on her son, Please … Her glistening eyes flitted to meet the officer’s icy glare as she tried, in vain, to shrug off the tight grip on her arms. Take my life instead, kind Sir, she begged in a strong, determined voice. I have lived my life. My son is a young man. He …

Shut up! thundered the officer, his eyes of authority fixed on the begging woman, an unfamiliar lump rising to his throat. Just shut up, he said in a lower voice. Turning, he plodded through the mud, trudging towards the hut as he mumbled in an inaudible voice, Cholera jasna, I had a mother too. After a few seconds he hollered, Lower your revolvers.

The creaking door opened. Three pairs of terrified eyes met cold eyes. Unblinking eyes stared at the unfriendly looking man before them; a man of immense authority; a giver and taker of life; a man who sent people away. Józef stared open-mouthed and wide-eyed at this object of curiosity, intrigued by the red star proudly displayed on the officer’s cap. I like your star, soldier, he blurted out, Magdallena instantly muffling his young mouth with her trembling hand, her eyes fixed firmly on the big man; her free hand secretly clutching her mother’s holy picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

He didn’t mean to speak, Sir, she said in a trembling voice.

He stared at her long and hard; unfeeling, unmoving; his eyes switched to the young boy staring directly back at him. He stood silent, cold and unemotional; a god in whom their fate lay. Give me a drink, he demanded. Vodka!

Hurriedly, Magdallena released the children from her grasp and, from a secret hiding place, away from Piotr’s clutches, she retrieved the bottle. Swilling a glassful in one go the soldier turned and walked out. Trudging up to Piotr, now held captive by the two soldiers, the officer eyeballed the trembling figure with eyes of frozen ice. Let this be a lesson to you, boy. Nobody; nobody makes threats to the Ruskis. Nobody! Your lives are in our hands and, ultimately, in the hands of our Master, Stalin. Understood? Piotr’s head swam with a thousand ball bearings about to explode. Understood? roared the officer.

Y-yes … y-es, stammered Piotr, his eyes firmly fixed on the older man.

Anyway, smirked the brawny Russian, tracing the young man’s chin with the tip of his revolver, who am I to deny you kulaki, you rich bastards, the never-ending holiday of a lifetime? He turned his eyes on Jadwiga and then Stefan. Now, start packing, he demanded, breaking into a fit of raucous laughter, the younger soldiers joining in the merriment.

Soldiers gone; Piotr grabbed his mud-covered blade. I’ll get the bastards. I swear I’ll get the cholerne Ruski pigs one day, he vowed between clenched teeth as Jadwiga and Stefan took slow steps to their home; unfeeling, cold, dead inside.

Chapter Two

Within two hours, the Jabtonski family and their meagre belongings, which had been hastily packed into shabby suitcases, and two of their neighbouring families were roughly hauled on to a horse-drawn cart and escorted to the tiny railway station. Magdallena put a protective arm around her children and brought them closer to herself, her tired eyes fixed on the long line of dirty cattle trucks ahead, filled to the brim with unwilling passengers of all ages about to embark on their one-way journey. Cold, frightened children clung to their mothers’ heavy overcoats, burying their heads in the coarse material, while babies wailed unceasingly. Where is the justice in all of this? A voice in her head asked repeatedly. Where is God? Piotr was right, after all. Stalin is our god now; he is the master of our future; of our lives; our destiny. A beloved and cherished image sprang into her mind. Dear, dear Krzysztof; will I ever see you again? Will Józef and Lilla ever come to truly know you as their father? Lowering her eyes to her children, she swallowed hard the lump lodged in her throat and gave them a tight hug.

Stop dawdling and get off, snarled a brusque voice, snapping the young woman out of her reverie.

Someone, help that old woman, another voice yelled into the sombre darkness.

A young soldier tugged at Jadwiga’s coarse woollen coat sleeve. Abruptly, he withdrew his hand from her arm as his blue eyes met her icy cold stare.

Quickly, quickly, demanded the first hoarse voice, carelessly throwing a sack of meagre possessions on to the hard ground and causing a framed photograph to fall out.

Leave it, ordered a soldier; approaching the fallen object, he stamped hard on the glass, shattering the images. You won’t need memories where you’re going, he hissed.

Hordes of grubby tired people; young and old were being pushed, prodded and pulled into the already packed trucks. Keeping close together, the Jabtonski family climbed into a wagon already full with bewildered, tired folk.

There’s no more room, objected an old woman, taking more room than most with her uncharacteristically obese bulk.

Shut up and move your carcass, snarled a soldier as he pushed and prodded Stefan’s frail body until he was firmly inside.

Finally, the loading was completed. Click! Bang! The door to the outside world, and their freedom, was firmly slammed and locked. The world they knew had ended. They were all prisoners amongst prisoners.

In the limited space available, Stefan and his family pushed and shoved through the mound of moaning men and women; securing themselves a place for the long journey ahead. Men, women and children were piled on top of their possessions; or, if they were lucky like the Jabtonskis, they were crammed into a bunk. From the top tier of one of the bunks which lined the wall of the wagon, Magdallena adjusted her eyes to the dusky gloom of the wagon; the dark, musty smell of her surroundings instantly hitting her nostrils. As her eyes flitted around, she noticed that the only tiny window she could see was barred; noticing a crack she immediately thrust Lilla’s face towards the fresh air.

But, it’s dark in here, Mamusia. I want to go home, sobbed the young girl, turning away from the small crack and burying her head in her mother’s coarse coat, wiping away her salty tears with her small hand.

Tell that brat to be quiet, Magda, ordered Piotr, or, I’ll …

Or, you will what? asked Jadwiga in a quiet, steady voice, her weary eyes fixed firmly on her son. Don’t you think it’s bad enough here as it is without picking a quarrel with your sister, Piotr?

Magdallena turned her back on her brother, her eyes resting on her mother’s stark, pale face. As she gently took her mother’s cold hand into her own, eyes etched with concern, she asked in a soft voice, Are you all right, Mama?

I am good. Jadwiga lied.