Galician Trails: The Forgotten Story of One Family

by Zalewski, Andrew

  We can only wonder today how Helena could ever have adapted to the constant parade of friendly and hostile armies repeatedly entering the area, each time inflicting visible damage. So often in those years, she had had to put her own plans on hold simply to get by, rather than reach toward the higher aspirations that every young person has. Losing a young child who had never seen her own father, and raising another while coping with all the insecurities of the time—mostly alone, and not knowing when, if at all, she would see her husband again—must have added immeasurably to the strain of that experience.

  The end of the war also brought a more subtle break between the present and the past. With the old order overturned and borders redrawn, the Kingdom of Galicia and Lodomeria, as it had been officially known for the past 140 years, ceased to exist. The familiar world of Helena’s grandparents and parents, the Lösches and the Regiecs, and of her own youth, had simply slipped away. With a new country around her, it was not fashionable to look back. Helena’s roots in Galicia, like those of thousands of others who eventually would move somewhere else, were not visible from the outside; but they remained within her.

  A very private person, my grandmother did not like to talk much about herself; still, a bit of Galicia lingered on in her later life. In casual conversation, a listener might hear in her speech a few unique linguistic phrases. Her fluency in the multiple languages that had been heard in Galician towns was a giveaway; so were her stories, like the one about the best watermelons for hot summers (from the Caucasus, she said). Such hints did give away a bit of the long-gone past.

  Eastern front at the cessation of hostilities in December 1917 and after the Brest-Litovsk Treaty in March 1918. (Modified with permission of the Department of History, United States Military Academy.)

  FRANCISCUS SOBOLEWSKI WAS NOW among hundreds of thousands of prisoners of war waiting to go home. When their journey would begin and how they would reach their destinations were topics of constant speculation; no one knew the answers. For several years, Franciscus had been held in the Russian city of Samara, on the banks of the Volga River, from where escape was virtually impossible. In Russia, train travel between provinces had always been under strict control; this was even more the case in wartime. There was no alternative transportation and no one could survive in that region for very long on foot. In reality, the vastness of the country was more effective in keeping Russia’s prisoners of war in place than any fence with barbed wire and watchtowers. Even if one did manage to escape, not having the right papers at the right time meant beatings, arrest, and a ticket to a penal colony in Siberia. The few POWs lucky enough to be held in large cities were helped on rare occasions by the Danish consul, who represented the interests of Austro-Hungary. He mediated for the release of some desperate soldiers; but these diplomatic niceties could not work for the majority of them, stranded in the huge backyard of the Russian Empire.1

  High hopes that the return of the former soldiers was just around the corner were raised by the Russian Revolution, and then by the Brest-Litovsk Treaty between the Bolsheviks and the Central powers. Unfortunately, as weeks turned to months, nothing happened. For Russia, breaking at her seams, there seemed to be no purpose in holding the men after hostilities on the eastern front had ended. Some wondered if this was a strategy, part of a Russian scheme to get the upper hand in future negotiations. Or perhaps it was a reflection of the legendary ineffectiveness of Russia’s bureaucracy. These explanations and others were possible, but the chaos that reigned after the revolution was a more likely reason.

  In September 1918, Franciscus Sobolewski and four other imprisoned officers made a decision to try their luck. Why they decided to escape then and not earlier will likely never be known, but it is certain that these restless POWs knew well that it would not be a leisurely trip. Many prisoners had hesitated, knowing the dangers along the way. One of those was an elderly high school teacher from Galicia, who taught with Franciscus in a school for displaced persons in Samara; his choice was to stay and to await more stable times.

  The journey home, one that normally would take two to three days by train, took the five men almost three months and brought them, in Franciscus’s own words, “through a land of anarchy and terror.”2 To reach Galicia, the escapees moved through lawless regions. Some were under the control of Bolsheviks; others were ruled by White Russians. Those who returned home told harrowing stories of overcrowded trains; unable to squeeze inside, many traveled on the roofs or steps of railway carriages for as long as they were moving west. The lucky ones who made it into train cars endured the ever-present smell of Russian tobacco (machorka) and horrible, unsanitary conditions.

  The last leg of their journey to the border with Austro-Hungary took the escapees through eastern Ukraine. There, remnant German troops and Ukrainian national forces, in an alliance, were fighting Bolsheviks; soon, they directed their arms against Poles. A confusing puzzle of gigantic proportions was on display; making a wrong move could easily cost one one’s life. The unpredictability of the journey was compounded by endless delays: Trains were stopped and held for days. Frequent changes in routes, sometimes based on news of what lay ahead but often at the whim of whoever was in control, were more the norm than the exception.3

  When their train finally arrived at its final stop, with the border in clear sight, a strange scene ensued. The former POWs and interned persons each carried their meager belongings bundled up as best they could. All of them, young and old, dashed across the last stretch into Galicia. After years in captivity and the harrowing journey of the past few months, none of them felt safe enough to wait another minute on the “other side.” The moment when Franciscus finally entered Galicia must have been a special one for him, after three long years in Russia. But nothing was straightforward in those times.

  Ukrainian forces were then surrounding Lvov, with Stanislawow and Bohorodczany already under their control. The news from home was sketchy, but what little trickled out spoke of civil disobedience by Poles and a new regime putting its stamp on local affairs in Stanislawow. Further travel toward Bohorodczany was not possible or, at best, not advisable under the circumstances. Instead, Franciscus continued west to the safety of Cracow. Upon arrival he was ordered, like all former members of the Austro-Hungarian military, to report immediately to the newly formed Polish army. There was simply no time for reunions with families or even just a quiet period to enjoy freedom. Surely, any letter from Fraciscus, regardless of how brief it was, must have reassured Helena that her husband was safe although still far away.4

  By December 28, 1918, Lieutenant Franciscus Sobolewski had been ordered to report to the town of Bedzin, located in a coal-rich region west of Cracow. His commission was as company commander of the 11th Infantry Regiment, which was just being born: a collection of men trying to resemble an army.5 The soldiers wore old German or Austrian uniforms, and their arms varied greatly. For Franciscus this became a busy time, filled with the training of new troops and short-term deployments to hot spots along the nearby borders with Germany and Czechoslovakia. We can only surmise that he was an effective officer, because on his first anniversary of rejoining the army, Franciscus would be promoted to the rank of captain (lieutenant commander). However, the real test of his character and skills would come in only a few months’ time.

  More than anywhere else in Europe, where the lines between old and new were not always clear, the border between Poland and Russia had remained unsettled after the Great War. The Bolsheviks, consumed by domestic troubles, had not been a party to the peace conference in Paris; and given general uncertainty about their survival, the Allies had waited before reaching an agreement with Russia on the border issue. There was no formal declaration of war, or any big battle marking the beginning of the new troubles. But skirmishes that began in early 1919 went on throughout the year, with Polish forces and the Soviet regime clashing from the Baltic countries through Belarus to Ukraine.6

  At first, the situation did not look bad for
Poles. The days of the Bolsheviks seemed to be numbered; the White Russians were marching on Moscow, and soon other rebel forces were closing in on St. Petersburg. Reports of panic and an impending collapse of the Soviets were read with relish throughout Europe, but again the fallacy of easy prediction became evident.7

  By early 1920, what had started as a low-level conflict had escalated to a real war. Poland was pushing its forces east in the hope of helping smaller countries emerge along its eastern borders. If its plan succeeded, the chain of friendly nations would stretch from the Baltic Sea in the north to the border with Romania in the south, and then continue on to the shores of the Black Sea. At the core of this so-called Intersea Plan was the intent to contain any future Russia—Red or White—before her appetite for expansion resurfaced. Given the recent past, Russia was not to be trusted, regardless of the outcome of its internal struggle. In reality, the situation was growing more complex; military cooperation between the forces of the Baltic countries and the Poles did not always materialize and, in some cases, quickly turned into bitter territorial disputes.8

  In February 1920, the 11th Regiment was ordered to march to Cracow. After a few days of collecting military supplies, the troops boarded a train and journeyed east into a full-blown conflict between Poland and Russia. With his arrival at the front, Lieutenant Commander Franciscus Sobolewski became chief of operations and then commanding officer of the 2nd battalion of the 11th Infantry Regiment. With several hundred soldiers under his command, he took part in an offensive deep into the heart of Ukraine, which was by then overrun by the Soviets. This was a time of rapidly shifting alliances; the enemy of the past year, forces from the eastern Ukrainian National Republic, now fought alongside the Polish army to regain its territory. The grievances of the past were put aside for a common objective: to create an independent Ukraine between Poland and Russia.9

  At first, it looked as if the Poles’ plan would succeed; the Russians were driven from Kiev, the capital of Ukraine. Franciscus Sobolewski’s unit was south of the city but still untested by major battles. The takeover of Kiev had symbolic meaning, but the sense of victory was short-lived. A Russian counteroffensive gathered strength, and the Polish army faltered. It began what would be called a retreat behind seven rivers—with each river marking what had been supposed to be an unbreakable line of defense. The situation became dire when Bolsheviks pierced through a long front and, in a rapid advance, entered the heart of Poland. In the summer of 1920, Cossacks appeared not too far from Warsaw. Russia was poised to take over the Polish capital.10

  In the beginning of August 1920, heavy fighting continued, with daily loss of life. The stakes were extremely high; Russians were closing in on Warsaw, and the collapse of the southern front could mean only one thing: a Bolshevik invasion of Galicia and then a victorious swoop through the rest of Poland. The 11th Infantry Regiment was positioned to the south of the gaping hole in the front. This time, its mission was not a supportive role somewhere on the back lines; by now, these troops were under constant attack by Russian cavalry. The 2nd battalion, led by Franciscus, was in charge of defense along the River Bug, near the village of Dorohusk. The situation was fluid, with Russian attacks, Polish counterattacks, and frequent shifts of the front line from one side of the river to the other. Soldiers were dying not only from bullets; some drowned while trying to reach exposed positions on the east bank.

  Writing from the battlefield to his superiors, the commanding officer of the 11th Infantry Regiment described events in crisp military style:

  On the morning of August 9, the enemy opened an artillery barrage on the trenches occupied by the 2nd battalion. At 7:30 a.m., Lieutenant Commander Sobolewski, the commanding officer of the 2nd battalion, received a report that the 8th company, located on the right flank of the battalion, was abandoning its positions; the Bolshevik cavalry had already been spotted nearby. Lieutenant Commander Sobolewski immediately rushed toward the right flank of his battalion. On his way, he noticed [at a distance] cavalry troops moving in formation west of the village of Dorohusk. He realized that this was the Polish [and not Bolshevik] cavalry, on which friendly artillery fire was already being opened. Realizing the mistake, he ran toward the artillery positions and stopped the deadly fire. Despite being wounded [in the line of fire], he maintained his composure, understanding the gravity of the situation. [Sobolewski] rallied the 8th company and led [the troops] back to previously abandoned trenches. In his action, Lieutenant Commander Sobolewski not only prevented bloodshed in our own [cavalry] units, but he rescued the entire battalion—as the adjacent companies, seeing the retreat of the right flank, began to withdraw!11

  Fortunately, Franciscus’s wounds were not serious.

  Major Franciscus Sobolewski decorated with the Silver Cross of the Virtuti Militari. The photograph was taken in Bedzin, Poland, in 1922.

  By early fall, the Poles, aided by French advisors and shipments of new arms, had been able to repel the Bolsheviks, averting a disaster that had almost ended their short-lived statehood.12 Now they were in hot pursuit of a retreating Russian army, moving the front lines eastward again. At long last, with both sides exhausted, a cease-fire was signed in October 1920. A period of long negotiation followed, with troops remaining in their positions along the mostly quiet demarcation line.

  Franciscus Sobolewski’s certificate as recipient number 477 of the Order of the Virtuti Militari.

  Franciscus remained at the front until the peace treaty with the Bolsheviks was signed in March of 1921. His conduct in battle had not gone unnoticed, and he was nominated for Poland’s highest military decoration, the War Order of Virtuti Militari, a venerated award dating back to 1792. Lieutenant Commander—soon to be Major—Franciscus Sobolewski became an early recipient of the Silver Cross of the Virtuti Militari, awarded in unusual instances for acts of outstanding bravery and risk to life on the battlefield. In a broader sense, the award ceremony, which took place in November 1921, closed a circle of family tradition. In the distant past, a few Sobolewski men had earned titles for military valor; now Franciscus, a teacher turned soldier, had distinguished himself above and beyond the call of duty under fire.13

  FOR HELENA, THE PREVIOUS year had also brought new challenges, but for quite different reasons. In February of 1920, her father, Joseph Regiec, had died of pneumonia at the age of 63. The general feeling, which would survive in a few scattered stories told many decades later, was that this was an unexpected and devastating loss of one who had held a central place in the lives and values of the entire Regiec family. And there were other issues for Helena as well. As war turned into peace, it became clear that Franciscus would not return to Bohorodczany. As my grandmother would later say, somewhat wistfully, “He went to a war from which he never came back.” With their house destroyed during attacks on Bohorodczany and no more reason to await Franciscus’s homecoming, Helena knew that her future would have to be built somewhere else.

  For the moment, however, my grandmother was trapped with her daughter in a largely destroyed town. Taking matters into her own hands, she petitioned the school boards in Stanislawow and Nowy Sacz for work. Those places were, of course, natural choices that offered her some sense of familiarity. Going through the required bureaucratic channels, she submitted calmly written requests about her difficult situation. She attached all required professional credentials and even a short note by her husband in support of her application. Then she waited and waited. When the replies started to come, she must have felt deeply disappointed and insecure about the future. The recurring theme of these terse statements was that, due to a lack of funding, no position could be found.14

  But Helena’s patience and perseverance ultimately paid off. When the long-awaited “yes” response finally arrived, that must have been a bittersweet moment. The letter made it clear that this young woman with a small daughter was to journey to an unfamiliar place; she would have to leave her newly widowed mother and her sister, with no one awaiting her arrival in the farawa
y city. But in the end, it was unlikely that she had many doubts. Helena was leaving behind just a few friends, including three women teachers who had been with her in Bohorodczany since before the war. Remarkably, all three had survived, but within a couple of years, they would be gone from the town as well.15

  Helena (Halina) Sobolewska’s handwritten petition seeking a teaching position in Nowy Sacz. In the text, Helena mentions property losses that she suffered during the past two Russian occupations in the course of World War I and during the most recent Polish-Ukrainian conflict. The document is dated December 1, 1919.

  The School District of Bohorodczany issued this note attesting that Helena Regiec Sobolewska was “a teacher in Bohorodczany from November 1, 1906, to the end of February, 1921.” One era in Helena’s life had ended, and a new one began.

  Then there was Helena’s husband’s family, which for generations had called no other place home. But times were changing; Sobolewski siblings and cousins were increasingly looking for opportunities elsewhere. Many of them had already left, and those who stayed behind would not remain in Bohorodczany for long. One was Wilhelmina, the youngest and prettiest of Franciscus’s sisters, who was still there caring for her aging parents. In spite of the upheavals of war, she had married just a few years earlier. Wilhelmina and her recently born son (who will resurface later in our story) would become the very last in a long line of the family who began their lives in Bohorodczany before leaving behind the land and the rhythm of the past.16