ky of Ukraine, how much strength you have, our blue sky.
Przemysl – city of my childhood. A bleeding wound strikes my body and heart. The memory doesn’t leave my soul, mind and body. Constant preoccupation rings in me and unfortunately confirms that life was useless. City of my childhood. The city, which is full of dreams, hope and love. I left you in a state of complete ruin, distress and hopelessness. The recollection of it compresses my heart and pain does not abate until the end. City is like a park in front of boundless space. Zamkova Mountain, Green Mountain, and between them there is Sian. Green forests. Having climbed on one of the mountains you see the whole city, at a glance. Towers of churches, domes of churches, castle walls, and between them there is a river and bridges over it. All is unique, you cannot find it anywhere. The pavement of old town remembers many events. Massacres of Jewish shops, demonstrations, building of urban bomb shelters, the first Polish tank that showed off, turning on the pavement, the amount of weapons on it, which were left by Polish soldiers and the armed German standing by it, the Moscals with forelocks and I saw their escape only in lingerie on July 22, 1941. I saw all this with my own eyes. The city of native cultures, the PolishUkrainian and Jewish city. Residents of the city knew these three languages, and my mother also knew them. Childish curiosity drove me to the streets and restrained me there until late at night. Dark blonde Ukrainians, dark Jewish girls, and blond Polish girls walked through Frantsishkanska street. Stone figures of church observed this mixture of nations silently. It is Przemysl, which will remain in my heart forever. There I was born and spent my childhood. Przemysl was Polish UkrainianJewish city, where Jews were expelled by Germans, and Ukrainians by Poles. Przemysl is woven in the lace of dreams, soft smells and sounds, when the city gets up from sleep. Sian, which is an indispensable part of this city, lives in the hides of my life. A human being feels, above all, a necessity to share with someone his experiences and feelings, to awaken in souls of his close people love and
anger to the past, so that our feelings will not disappear without a trace. Fate did not give me the opportunity to serve the Motherland with weapons in hands, so there are only memories and impressions that I got during his unhappy life. Recollections are partially preserved in memory, they are the only riches of lived days, they remain the only ray of truth in the darkness in which we live. The torture for me was something that I have seen when enemies tortured my people and because of some reasons I could not resist them. We were left alone with my mother. Poles realized forced evacuations. We left the native places where our ancestors lived from ancient time, and thus we left all household and what is more important – native land. Of course, there was no social and psychological security. The people were lead into the unknown. This imposed a pathological influence on future life. Hope, personal dignity and belief in accuracy of your actions allow to live with dignity in all circumstances. Then fate will be favorable to you. All my life I was looking myself in the past as a man before death and I cannot find a single moment, where it would be better, but a hope and time are my allies and it seems that they have not betrayed me. The effect of time is very important. A person experiences strokes of fate, is able to put its own bill for past defeats. Regret for the past, for relatives who lie in native, but alien land, for those who fell with hope in their heart, for the life lived without meaning, make me lift my head and gaze into the starry sky, looking for looks and feelings, there in the depths of the universe, of the friends and relatives. Birches are bending, spruces are standing proudly, forest murmurs quietly above the graves covered with fallen leaves and at dawn falling leaves start its quiet song and gives the gentle sound. Sometimes the place of burial is signified by a cross carved on a tree, but usually there is no sign. My memory is tortured by visions. I did not understand where they came from, but it had one goal – to drive us from our land, take away property, kill men, burn villages, dishonor our women and girls. We were accustomed to the loss of our beloved and relatives, but to lose hope meant the same as the end of the world and many were full of despair. That spring was very severe. Potatoes were the only food, and hunger looked at us from the corner of our house. I look on my mother surprisingly, who
collects our things. Her presence makes even fire burn better in the oven, it heated warmer. Constant worry rings in the chest. I want to eat every day and there is only potatos. "Do not anger God, says mother, there are potatoes on the table, you're healthy, what do you need more? A mother thinks about one thing. Evacuation can be compared to death. "Evacuation" – a forced leaving of property. The mind refuses to believe in what is happening in our villages. People still believed in some force that will change the current events and a land, poured with sweat and blood of their fathers, and some day they will lie in it, near their ancestors. Longsuffering land and your children – your fate endured a lot of hell torments. You were measured with strange standards, torn into pieces, scattered over the whole world, deprived of the language, they falsificated the history, and conscience of the nation turned into a constant debate. And everyone thought he would be here forever. Polish occupation, its cruelty didn’t have boundaries, and Russian terror wasn’t better. Dear Mrs. Victoria, I live all my life with what I have written. These thoughts did not give me the opportunity to live quietly and get accustomed to existing conditions. Maybe, somewhere in the world there are those who understand me.