Leokadia Żabianka
Class 1
State Middle School and High School in Stalowa Wola
How I was working in clandestine school
“But of that blood that was shed so lately, of the tears which have flooded the face of all Poland, of the glory that not yet has ceased resounding: of these to think we had never the heart! For the nation is in such anguish that even Valour, when he turns his gaze on its torture, can do naught but wring the hands.”
[A. Mickiewicz, Pan Tadeusz, or the Last Foray in Lithuania, transl. by G.R. Noyes]
It was a while since fall was so beautiful as the fall in the memorable year of 1939. At this time the fall spread its beauty over Poland. It trailed quietly around empty fields, shrouded with silver threads of the spider web, mourning and sadness. Then hostile Germanic eyes drank greedily its heft, gloated over its charm, promising never to lose it and never to leave this land, which fertile, quiet and helpless lay beneath their feet; which beautiful morning glistened with drops of dew, which like tears fell into the hearts of Poles and there weighed down with the stone of unshed misery...
The beautiful fall in 1939, but for the Poles it does not exist. They don’t see the beauty of the nature. For them the sun doesn’t shine anymore. Recently, the last sounds of shooting in the unfinished fight could be heard. Fresh wounds still bleed, and heavy chains of bondage ring ominously on the tied feet of Poles. Dim eyes look desperately into the gray, misty distance and are lost in the immeasurable, hopeless void.
Next to the beautiful fall, lawlessness and violence have unfolded over Poland. The filthy Germanic boots crushed Poland’s head more and more, wanting to wipe it off, mix it with mud and spit on it.
The General Government ironically tried to wipe off the name of Poland from the map of Europe.
They tried to wipe off Its name from the memory of the nations and from history, and even tried to reach out to Polish hearts.
But they were closed and violence did not reach there! When the bloody-minded, inhuman terror reached its peak, the Germans were sure about their victory. The prisons were full, countless concentration camps, crematories, execution sites, bullets and lashes filled them with hope. They thought that frightened Poles, harnessed to servitude, would pull the yoke in humility.
Meanwhile a Pole doesn’t bow his head to violence that easily, doesn’t reject the thought of fight and freedom that easily. In the hearts of Poles, Poland didn’t stop living even for a moment. They never stopped living their national life, even though it was concentrated underground during all those years of bondage. Secret was the thought of freedom, secret was an escape to the forest, secret was partisan fighting, secret was community work and even studying was secret. Everyone developed the underground where he could, at whatever facility he was, and worked with a vision of a future free Poland.
I remember how in the first years of bondage I was only 13 years old. It was only then, that I looked around carefully for the first time, shaken out by the warfare and its sad consequences from the rosy and blissful dreams of my childhood. The German lash touching my friends’ back taught me that I am a Pole, taught me hate and dictated plans for delightful future revenge.
Sometimes in the moments of unexplained longing, I would write very childish poems. I remember that they were always about Poland, the White Eagle, freedom. The poems were always drowning in the streams of tears and melted in a hot dream and quiet prayer. Indeed those tears were often hidden under the mask of peace, distance, and even composure for a long time, so that my worried parents couldn’t see it, so that I could cheer them up and say something comforting.
How happy was I when one day I got to the clandestine school. It was situated near Stalowa Wola in a small, muddy Pławo, in the private apartment of the headmaster of the Middle School and High School in Stalowa Wola, Mr. Kossowski. The small, inconspicuous house under linden trees became to me – and not only to me, but also for many other young Poles – just a haven and little Poland.
Every morning, it didn’t matter if it was freezing, it didn’t matter if the weather was good or not, if the repressions had increased or not, clusters of people came to this house on foot, by bike, 10, 12 or even 20 km, however they could just to be on time for the lesson. And like this, during all those years of bondage from morning till night, the clusters would switch there, sneak inconspicuously, so that they wouldn’t make the prying Gestapo suspicious.
Two cramped rooms, but how many young souls, unmatched desires, ideals they accommodated. How many hearts they warmed and how many memories were made there. Two cramped rooms, but they took over the whole country, pulsing tirelessly with its life, as if becoming its warmly throbbing heart. They beamed to the entire neighborhood, burned with the flame of love [for] the motherland and sent many young heroes from their walls into the battle from which he was never to return.
I went through four classes of middle school in this house. For almost four years I was its regular guest. Today it’s hard to believe in the persistence of conspiratorial work. The director, Mr. Kossowski and professor Mrs. Kossowska would teach us on the highest level possible for all those years in those indescribable conditions. It wasn’t any fiction, it was true, normal teaching.
Among the walls decorated by historical paintings: Reytan, the defense of Częstochowa, Skarga’s Sermon, we would listen with pleasure to the friendly words of our professors, who in their deepest understanding of their job were our friends and we all felt like family. Among the rampant repression, among the growing doubt, they were the only ones who told us about the great moments from the past. They would tell us: “The Teutonic reptile cannot be appeased / by hospitality, by request, or by gifts,” that “Poland has not yet perished, / so long as we still live,” and there our young hearts absorbed hope, comfort and the power to survive slavery.
It wasn’t surprising that even though we all worked in factories, on the railways, in the shops, pharmacies and offices, despite the repressions we all sneaked out, mistaking the chase for one another, so that at least we could secretly, in a small house under the lindens, in our hearts, build a future free Poland.
More than once we clearly realized that we were in danger, if the Germans would spot this nest of Polishness. And it wasn’t that hard to spot it, in these conditions, with the huge amount of spies around. But no one was discouraged by this and no one despaired when, for example, two teachers were executed, when they found a clandestine teaching group nearby, and all its members were taken away to the camp. We – thanks to God and cleverness [and also] goodwill and understanding of local villagers – weren’t spotted and happily made it to the end.
I, in a conspiratorial group consisting of at least one hundred people, was one of the youngest, and till today I still remember all of these colleagues, who went to the first calling of the motherland and about whom we only say today that they “fell on the field of glory”. I know that the secret school made them the kind of heroes they were.
And what did the school give me personally? Oh, I could talk about this for hours. The knowledge I possessed there alone allowed me to be a student of the first class in the high school, and not to begin the middle school. The clandestine school taught me love [for] the Motherland and patriotism. It didn’t allow me to break down during the occupation and still gave me the opportunity to bring faith and hope to others.
Today we have freedom. It grew out of the blood that was shed, was bought with the death of several million victims, brought up with the sighs of martyred breasts, bathed in tears that poured heavily and until they found their way to the feet of God.
Poland is alive again! Today I study in a free school and I recall happily the times of clandestine teaching. Sometimes like a horrible nightmare I see in my dreams the specter of German bondage. Then I bless that little house under the lindens and I know that my thoughts will forever come back to it, come back to unforgettable, lasting impressions and experiences.