My grandfather told me…

March 22nd

…this story when I was quite young. It stayed with me for more than thirty years now, and for no reason at all, I decided to share it today:

During the Second World War, my grandfather was a partisan, fighting against Nazis, then Commies, then Nazis again, and then Commies again in north-eastern Poland. In 1944, he joined the newly formed Polish Army (under the Russian communist leadership) to push on Berlin, but he was found out and denounced as an anti-communist partisan (that he was) and was arrested. He was interrogated and tortured, then put on a cattle train car with other prisoners and send to Moscow. Somewhere in the middle of the Belarusian plains, the train stopped. Russian soldiers who were escorting the prisoners opened the car door and told the prisoners that they are letting them go. They said they know they are innocent and that in Moscow they will be tortured and killed or sent to Gulag to die. My grandfather and other prisoners at first refused to go — they thought that this is a trap. That as soon as they step out of the train, they will be shot in the back and marked as killed during the escape attempt. The Russian soldiers were told that they just want to help them and if they stay on the train, not one of them will have any chance of surviving.

My grandfather told me that he had to make a decision on the spot — a decision on which his life depended. A decision, if made wrong, would mean that there wouldn’t be my mom and there wouldn’t be me in the future. He could wait on the train for the inevitable death that would come after more torture, or a possible (and quick) death if the Russian soldiers were lying and were to shoot them. But there was the chance that soldiers were telling the truth and would let them go. A minuscule chance, but a chance nonetheless.

He and other prisoners decide to take the second option and trust the Russian soldiers. They left the train and started running. There were no shots fired. The train started moving soon after. They were alive. They split and individually tried to make their way to their homes or safe places. It took three weeks for my grandfather to make it home — just to say that he was alive — and go into hiding for another four years until the general amnesty in 1948. The same year he married my grandmother, then my mom was born a year after.

I am not really sure why I thought about this story today, and why I simply needed to share it with those who read my blog. I am sure there is an underlying reason — I guess about making a choice. A choice that has to be made in a split second and a choice that can affect so much. Like the life (or even being) of the future generations. But it is also important to remember — that there is always a choice. Having time (for now) — we can choose wisely.