When I thought about the river crossing, my heart began to pound and my body became tense with apprehension. Someone had told me that smugglers, disguised as soldiers, used small boats to cross the river. Perhaps this was my way across? But how could I tell the difference between the smuggler-soldiers and the numerous genuine soldiers who patrolled the river banks? I couldn’t forget the fateful river crossing in Poland when I’d been captured. Having come so far and with freedom beckoning, I had to weigh up every option with the greatest care.
I had a number of choices. I could steal a boat, but where there were boats there were usually people. I could try to swim across but the river was quite deep in parts and probably had strong undercurrents. Or I could cross the bridge on foot. The risks were great whichever option I chose. After much thought I finally decided to put on a bold front and risk a crossing of the bridge. I checked my pocket, feeling reassured when my fingers touched the small white disc.
The darkness hid my scruffy appearance. Finding a good vantage point, I watched the lone corporal yawning in his sentry box. His comrades were either on patrol or snatching forty winks somewhere out of sight. I took out my railway inspector’s pass and, with grim determination, began my approach. Suddenly realising he had a visitor, the sentry jumped into action, pointed his revolver at my head and demanded my documents.
As coolly and calmly as I could, I showed him my pass, pointing to my inspector’s authority and the official ‘Hammer and Sickle’ stamped across the document. He was still half asleep, and the hammer and sickle were sacrosanct. I obviously had authority. Without a second glance, he swung the barriers upwards. I thanked him and began to walk nonchalantly across the bridge. The feeling of elation was overwhelming. I wanted to shout and sing! It had been so easy! All the sentry had been interested in was my official document; he’d shown no interest in my name, my appearance or my business. The hammer and sickle had been enough.
Once across the bridge, I veered off the main road, keeping my eyes open for a path that would take me towards the border. My feelings of elation suddenly began to give way to weariness. I had walked and climbed a long way in the past days and I needed a rest if I were to concentrate effectively on the final leg of my journey. A cluster of bushes just off the track offered concealment and I plunged into the middle of them. The greenery formed a cocoon round me and, as I sat in total darkness, I took out my almost empty vodka bottle. I had saved this for a special occasion and this was it. I’d crossed the Amu-Darya River and it had been the easiest crossing I’d ever made! I drank to my impending freedom. I was emotionally exhausted and the warmth of the vodka helped me relax. I fell asleep still clutching the bottle.
The warmth of the midday sun penetrated the bushes. I had slept for almost eight hours! Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I took stock. I reckoned it was about ten miles to the border. Since my suitcase was by now almost empty it had served its purpose. I transferred the last of the sugar and tobacco to my pockets. I ate my last two eggs, not knowing where my next meal would come from. Leaving the utensils in the case, I went down to the river bank, filled the case with stones and submerged it in the water. This way I’d be able to retrieve it if necessary.
I was so close to freedom that my brain wouldn’t function properly. Past events kept flashing through my mind. I vividly recalled the filthy black cellar near the Polish border, my journey to the Lubianka, my years in Pechora Lager, my escape, the bullet that should have ended my life, my Russian saviours Dimitriev and Irena, the interminable, dangerous train journeys and, finally, my Uzbek friend, without whose help I should still have been wandering the mountains.
Now I’d reached the final part of my journey. How would it end? Would it be death or freedom? I knew if I was arrested I’d swallow that small white disc without hesitation, since I knew that death was preferable to life in a Siberian camp. But what if I was successful? Would I ever adjust to life as a free man? Would I ever get used to not being on the run?
I knelt in meditation and prayer, my mind a jumble of confused thoughts. My only salvation was to talk to God:
‘Dear God, I place myself entirely in your hands. I, who was to become one of your chosen few, shunned you. Lord, if I had followed my calling, I would not have been subjected to the scourges you have deemed fit to inflict upon me. I am repentant. You have protected me on my long journey. If it is your will for me to regain my freedom, I implore you to protect me in this my final effort. My destiny is in your hands. Amen.’
As I meditated, my mind slowly cleared of all thoughts of the past, leaving me to think more clearly about my future.
Finally I set off on the last lap. I followed the road yet kept myself hidden behind the trees. The early afternoon had become exceptionally warm and humid and large cloud masses were beginning to form in the west. The humidity was exhausting and soon my walking began to get laboured. Although it was still only early evening, darkness began to fall very rapidly as big angry clouds began to eclipse the sun. Thunder rumbled in the distance and flashes of lightning lit up the sky. Every crack of thunder brought the storm nearer, the rumbles reverberating down the valleys. Black clouds now engulfed the mountain peaks.
My better judgement told me to seek shelter before the rains came but I ignored it. The border was so near I had to press on. Perhaps this was the answer to my prayer since the chances of crossing the border in the storm might be higher. By now the thunder was continuous and it was only by good fortune that I heard the sound of horses’ hooves. I dived into the undergrowth but didn’t have time to conceal myself properly. Seconds later a full battalion of Kazakh cavalry galloped past my hiding place. The officer was urging his men on to reach the barracks before the rain came. I had the feeling that they were so anxious to avoid the storm they’d have ignored me even if I’d stayed on the road in full view.
The storm had whipped up the wind and with the wind came the rain, rain that bounced six inches off the ground, rain that stung my face and hands yet refreshed me after the enervating humidity. I could no longer walk behind the trees; the road was the only firm surface. It took only minutes for my clothes to become saturated and my boots to fill with water as I splashed through the rivulet already covering the road.
The wind grew stronger. Fighting to keep my feet was like battling with an unseen demon. I had never in my life witnessed such a storm. Bolts of lightning fell from the sky, one hitting the ground in front of me, leaving a huge smouldering scorch mark in the wet earth. I began to run like a man possessed, the wind attacking me from all directions, one minute thrusting me forward, the next pushing me back.
Once more I became aware of noises, horses whinnying in frenzied excitement, dogs howling. I slowed down, not sure of my position. Then, as the lightning once more lit up the sky, I saw a red, almost ghostly, barrier and a cluster of buildings. The frontier post! And no more than twenty yards in front of me!
This was it, the last obstacle. I crept as close as I dared, the sound of the dogs’ howling growing louder, the horses rearing and crashing in their stalls. Each time the lightning flashed, I built up a picture of my surroundings. There seemed to be one solitary guard at the frontier crossing. He was sitting in a wooden sentry box. The red barrier, the colour I had grown to hate, was down and a storm lantern rocked crazily backwards and forwards outside the box. As I ventured nearer, I could see that the soldier had a rifle at his side. But he was holding his head in his hands, as if in pain. I couldn’t tell whether he was drunk, asleep or just terrified of the violent storm.
Slowly I took my knife from my belt. If I had to kill this man for my freedom I would do it. The noise of the storm and the terrified animals would conceal any sound. ‘In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.’ I I crossed myself. It was now or never. My legs felt like lead weights as I urged them forward, moving nearer and nearer the sentry box. The wind was now behind me, pushing me towards that blood-red barrier. The sound of thunder was like music to my ears, the ‘music of freedom’. I was almost there.
I was now in full view of the moaning soldier, whose head was now resting on his desk, his hands clasped over his ears, the creaking lantern sending ghostly images across his body. I was now at the barrier. It took me two seconds to duck under the pole and run. I ran, without looking back, ran with my arms in the air, still clutching my knife tightly in my right hand. I wanted to sing, and shout and dance but the wind took my breath away. Tears streamed down my face. I tasted the salt as they mixed with the rain. I ran open-mouthed to freedom.
I was at least two miles across the border before I finally stopped. The storm was moving away eastwards and the rain had eased slightly. I could hear the sound of running water as the rivulets formed into streams and the streams merged, eventually feeding the Amu-Darya river. But all this seemed distant and remote. I was trying to come to terms with what had happened. I told myself that I had actually crossed the border but I found it hard to believe. After all, the mountains looked the same, even though they were Afghan mountains and not Soviet ones. Gradually the truth began to sink in as exhaustion overcame me. I knelt down to kiss the earth, rubbing my face in the soft mud. Sobbing with relief, I looked up at the sky and let the now gentle rain wash my face.
It was time to rest. Habit made me look for a safe haven. I removed my wet jacket, squeezing out the surplus water, and emptied my saturated boots. Then I sat down under the shelter of some rocks to assess my position. During my quest for freedom I’d never allowed myself to doubt that I would cross the border. At the same time, not wanting to tempt fate, I’d never made any definite plans for when I actually arrived in Afghanistan. I knew that Polish army units were being set up in Persia and Palestine, so my best course of action seemed to be to keep moving south until I was intercepted by the Afghan authorities, when I would tell my story and ask for their help.
I felt safe and content for the first time in years. As I settled down to rest, with the sound of the storm disappearing into the distance, I knew that I had a future. When I awoke from a light sleep, dawn was breaking, a special dawn, the first dawn of my new life. Although my legs still ached and my wet clothes clung to my body, I began to walk down the valley with renewed strength. The sun appeared, bringing with it warmth and vitality, drying my clothes as I travelled that long, lonely, deserted road. At times I had to negotiate obstacles in the way; whole trees had been ripped from the ground during the storm and many lay across the road.
It was mid-morning before I finally came across signs of life. Nestling among the trees was a small village and on its outskirts what appeared to be a military post.
Remembering what had happened to me when I’d been caught with German identity papers in my possession I immediately tore my railway inspector’s pass into tiny bits. Then I began to walk through the village, in the direction of the military building. The place seemed deserted. For a moment I felt panic; perhaps Afghanistan had been infiltrated by the Soviets. Perhaps I wasn’t free after all!
Finally, I saw a tall man, a huge turban adding to his height, approaching from the direction of the military post. As he came up to me I asked him urgently, in Russian, if I was in Afghanistan. He stared, not understanding the language. I pointed to the ground, repeating the word ‘Afghanistan, Afghanistan’ over and over again. Suddenly a smile spread across his face. He placed his hands together and bowed, nodding his head as he repeated ‘Afghanistan’. My heart leapt, my fears disappeared. Returning his smile and pointing to the military post I followed him.
The sparsely furnished building was cool after the midday sun. I took the chair he indicated as he disappeared into another room. Minutes later another soldier appeared, looking at me with apprehension before himself disappearing into the same room. I remained seated, sweat making my palms sticky as I clasped and unclasped my hands. Then another soldier appeared from nowhere, with a rifle slung loosely over his shoulder. He escorted me into the other room.
Sitting behind a desk were the two soldiers I’d already met. They took out their identity papers, pointed to them and then pointed to me. I shook my head. Still speaking in Russian I told them I was Polish, that I had escaped from Russia and that I was in desperate need of their help. They didn’t understand a word. I turned to Polish but still they didn’t understand. In desperation I spoke in German and this time they seemed to grasp that I was Polish.
Telephone calls were made. Not understanding the language, I sat tensely on the edge of my chair, awaiting the outcome. The soldiers smiled at me and, wanting to show that I too was friendly, I returned their smiles. Eventually they stood up and beckoned me to follow. I had no idea where they were taking me but my fate was in their hands.
As we left the building we made for a waiting jeep. For one awful moment, I panicked at the thought that they were taking me back to the Soviet border. What a relief when the driver set off south, deeper into Afghanistan. We travelled over very rough terrain for about half an hour, with the jeep bouncing up and down over deep ruts, until we reached what was obviously a headquarters building. I was ushered into a large room with my escorts. There was a huge map pinned to the wall and I eagerly retraced my journey for them. They seemed to accept that I was a Pole and that I had escaped from Siberia.
They mimed ‘food and drink’ and I accepted eagerly. Bread, eggs and a cup of strong coffee were brought and I ate hungrily. I took out my machorka and offered it around but to our disappointment it refused to light owing to the soaking it had received during the storm.
We were interrupted by the arrival of a distinguished-looking, smartly-dressed man. He wore a long Afghan tunic belted at the waist and long baggy trousers tied at the ankles. On his head was a black sheepskin hat and a pair of old-fashioned glasses were balanced on the edge of his nose. Seeing our plight, he immediately went to his desk and took out a full packet of cigarettes which he handed round. I took one and inhaled. The luxury of it! I couldn’t remember ever receiving such preferential treatment.
We drank coffee and smoked cigarettes. I found he was an interpreter and spoke fluent Russian. I told him how I’d been caught in the storm. To give veracity to my story, I showed him my swollen legs and bitten body. He caught sight of my knife but made no attempt to have it confiscated. I felt safe and relaxed, so different from my previous brushes with authority. Casually he started to ask me questions. What was my nationality? I told him Polish. He asked me to speak in Polish, which I did, as well as in German and Russian, my other main languages. He answered me accordingly since he too was fluent in all three. He asked me my name, age, why I’d been sent to the labour camp, how I’d escaped. I told him my story, showing him my scarred neck, choking back tears of emotion as I described the kindness done to me on my route south. I talked for two hours, drinking endless cups of coffee and smoking countless cigarettes. The interpreter studied the map trying to put my journey into perspective.
‘You are a very lucky man,’ he said at last. ‘Many try to flee from the Soviet regime but few are successful. The frontier is guarded by vicious dogs and the sentries don’t ask questions; they shoot first and feed the corpses to the hungry pack. We’ve seen this with our own eyes but we can’t help for fear of the dogs being set upon us. The storm was your saviour. Had it been a clear night, we wouldn’t have been holding this conversation.’
He turned and looked at me directly.
‘What are your plans now you’re a free man?’
I said I wanted to join a Polish army unit, possibly in Persia or Palestine, where I’d heard they were being formed. My aim was to fight for my country against the Germans and, if necessary, against the Russians. He seemed sympathetic and offered to help, but meanwhile I must earn my keep by doing light work in the army kitchen. I needed to eat well to build up my strength; I was just skin and bones. With that he shook hands and embraced me, wishing me luck and a safe journey when I finally travelled to join my countrymen.
My escorts then took me for a bath. With the help of a bar of soap and a soft scrubbing brush I cleaned my body from head to toe, shaving off my thick knotted beard and cutting my hair as short as possible to get rid of the lice. I’d been given an Afghan uniform and felt quite impressed with my new image as I took my old railway uniform into the yard and burned it. I was eager to start my new life.
Regimentation in the Afghan army was non-existent and the kitchen work was easy. I spent much of my time eating along with the young soldiers who were doing their compulsory stint of kitchen duties. The language barrier proved a problem at first but I’d always excelled at languages and it didn’t take me long to pick up some basic vocabulary which, with the aid of sign language, helped me to communicate. For two months I worked in the kitchens.
Eventually, just as I was beginning to get impatient, I was summoned to headquarters where the interpreter was waiting for me with the good news: I was to rejoin the Polish army. I was taken to Pahlevi, on the Caspian Sea, and from there I went to Palestine, where I came under the protection of the British. As a result I eventually found myself on British soil. In Britain I was trained as a paratrooper to keep contact with the Polish Underground Army, known as the Armia Krajowa or AK.
At last I was fighting for the freedom of my fatherland.