THE REAL LIVEJOURNAL IDOL SEASON 10, WEEK 3: "Brushback Pitch"
BREAKING THE OPPOSITION
OCTOBER 1939
Dmitry hauled back and punched Antoni in his jaw; being bound to a chair, the young Polish man could neither evade the blow nor defend himself.
The Russian interrogator brought his face close to Antoni's. “Are you truly an imbecile? You've been telling me the same damned lies for two weeks straight, and I've punished you every time you've repeated those lies. Haven't you realized by now that you'd be better off telling me the truth?”
“But I'm not lying...” Antoni spat blood on the floor away from Dmitry, despite his desire to project his sputum into his tormentor's face. “... I can't help it if you refuse to believe me.”
The Russian viciously slapped Antoni in his freshly-injured jaw. “You uncultured son-of-a-bitch! Do you think me so stupid that I would foolishly believe your transparent lies! You were wearing a Polish Air Force pilot's jacket when our forces captured you! Why can't you just admit you are a pilot?”
Antoni slowly turned his head and returned Dmitry's glare. “Because I'm not a pilot. Yes, I am a member of the Polish Air Force... but I was a navigator, not a pilot. I took the jacket off the corpse of another member of my squadron after we were shot down, so that I wouldn't freeze to death in the night. And your forces didn't 'capture' me; after I spent three weeks in the wilderness, I deliberately sought out one of your patrols and surrendered to them before I starved to death.”
Dmitry scoffed. “And why should I believe that you would willingly turn yourself over to us?”
Antoni grimaced. “Because I've heard the stories of what the Nazis are doing to my fellow Poles. They don't consider us to be human, but merely vermin that must exterminated... just like all other Slavic peoples... including the Russians.” Antoni chuckled. “You may consider me to be your enemy, but at least you recognize that I'm human...”
“ENOUGH!” Dmitry had finally lost all patience. “I am sick of your nonsense!” He pulled his pistol from its holster and pointed it at Antoni's forehead. “If you do not tell me that you are a pilot, right here and now, I swear to Almighty God that I will shoot you! So for the last time: ADMIT THAT YOU ARE A PILOT!”
Antoni stared at the muzzle of the weapon for several seconds... and then calmly said: “I am a navigator.” After a moment, he glanced up at Dmitry's shocked face. “Go ahead. Do it. All my family is in Western Poland... which the Nazis now control. If they aren't all dead already, they soon will be. I have nothing left to live for. So just shoot me; you'd be doing me a favor...”
For several seconds, neither man said a word... then Dmitry put the weapon back in its holster. He looked Antoni straight in the eye as he ordered “Don't you say that ever again!”... before adding in a quiet voice: “There are plenty of interrogators around here who would happily fulfill such a request.” The Russian sighed and shrugged. “I see you are just too stubborn to admit the truth... now. So you leave me no choice but to transfer you to one of our labor camps in Siberia; I'm sure that experience will break your resolve. And I promise you: before you die, you will admit to me that you are a pilot!” And with those words, Dmitry knocked on the cell door and left to make the arrangements to have this stupid, stubborn Pole shipped out...
SEPTEMBER 1941
Antoni was thin as a rail, but he was alive. Despite the intense cold, the repeated beatings by the guards, the minimal rations and the bouts of typhus and dysentery, he had managed to stay alive. Though he had been tempted on occasion to deliberately seek out death to end his misery, he always talked himself out of it, reasoning that God would view such an action as a form of suicide, which was a Mortal Sin... and his only hope of ever being reunited with his family again was to join them in Heaven.
He had not undergone any further rounds of interrogation since he had been shipped out to Siberia two years previously. As such, he was completely bewildered when a pair of guards pulled him aside one day and marched him off to the camp's main building... and utterly dumbfounded when he found Dmitry waiting for him in the camp commander's office.
“Antoni! How good it is to see you again!” The Russian embraced the Pole and kissed him on both cheeks, as if he were an old and dear friend. “Please have a seat! Would you like some tea?” Antoni's mind was whirling as the Russian interrogator poured him a fresh cup of the steaming beverage from a samovar. “So... You are well, I trust?”
Antoni cautiously sipped his tea as he tried to make sense of what was happening. “As well as can be expected...” Was he dreaming, or had he just gone mad? “And... how are things with you?”
Dmitry smiled sardonically. “As you just said: As well as can be expected... after the Nazis recently stabbed us in the back. No doubt you heard about that, even out here.”
Antoni nodded slowly. “I'd heard rumors... but there are always rumors. It's hard to know which ones to believe.”
“Well, you can believe that one, take my word for it!” Dmitry quickly became rather businesslike. “We always knew this day would come; as you said to me two years ago, the Nazis have always viewed the Slavic peoples as vermin to be wiped out... so now we Slavs must band together against this menace!” The Russian leaned close to the Pole. “How would you like to fly again, to drop bombs on those uncultured Nazi bastards?”
Antoni could hardly believe his ears. “You... want me... to fly planes... for the Soviet Air Force?”
Dmitry chuckled. “Well, Yes... and No. As much as we'd love to have a tough, experienced pilot like yourself flying for the Soviet Union, I'm afraid the Germans managed to virtually wipe out our Air Force in the opening weeks of their attack on us. It will be a very long time before we have enough planes to respond... but our British allies are getting so many planes from their American cousins, they can't train pilots fast enough to fly them all! So they're willing to take any and all pilots from other nations - Mother of God, they're BEGGING us to send them every available pilot we have!” The Russian smiled like the cat that had swallowed the canary. “So, Antoni... how would you like to fly planes for the British Royal Air Force?”
After several moments consideration, Antoni quietly said “I think I would like that very much.”
“Excellant!” Dmitry reached into his briefcase and pulled out a typed form. “All you need do is sign this statement, wherein you declare that you are a trained pilot in the Polish Air Force, and we will start the travel arrangements to get you to England...” He placed the form on the table in front of Antoni, along with a fountain pen.
Antoni quickly read the document, and found it was exactly as Dmitry had described: A simple, formal statement claiming that he, Antoni Kolbuszowski, was a Polish Air Force pilot... and once he confirmed that, he signed his name at the bottom. The moment that was done, Dmitry laughed heartily, clapped Antoni on the back and crowed: “I told you I'd make you admit that you were a pilot!” Antoni felt his guts twist into knots fearing Dmitry had somehow tricked him as the Russian put the form in his briefcase and left the room while laughing uproariously...
… Yet within the week, Antoni had his old Polish Air Force uniform returned to him, freshly cleaned and pressed... including the Pilot's jacket. The following morning he was woken just before dawn and driven out to the nearest airfield, where he and several other Poles were loaded into a transport plane, which began flying Northwest until they landed in a field next to a railroad station, where a train was waiting. The next leg of the journey took 3 days, with several stops along the way... but eventually they reached the port city of Arkhangelsk, where Antoni and the other Poles were taken aboard a transport ship to continue their westward journey... until they finally docked in Edinburgh.
OCTOBER 1941
“Ah, Lieutenant... Kolbuszowski, is it?” The Royal Air Force officer's grasp of the Polish language was rather good, although his accent was awful. “My name is Davies, and allow me to welcome you to Scotland.” The two men briefly shook hands before they sat down. “I just have a few questions for you. First: Please tell me which aircraft have you have piloted, and approximately how much flight time you've had in each?”
For several seconds, Antoni was silent... until he said in a hoarse whisper: “I'm not a pilot.”
Davies blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I'm not a pilot, I'm a navigator. The Russians would only let me out of their damned labor camp if I said I was a pilot... so I lied.” Antoni's eyes began to brim with tears. “Please don't send me back...”
Davies leaned back in his chair, obviously surprised by Antoni's admission. “You're a navigator?”
“Yes!” Antoni closed his eyes and began weeping uncontrollably. “I know it was wrong for me to lie... but I just couldn't take it anymore! Please try to understand--” At this point he opened his eyes... and immediately stopped his blubbering when he saw the smile on the R.A.F. officer's face.
Davies reached over and grasped Antoni's shoulder in a distinctly friendly gesture. “Lieutenant, we need navigators at least as desperately as pilots, if not more so!”
Antoni's jaw dropped in astonishment. “You're not upset? Not going to send me back?”
“Upset?” Davies snorted. “Lieutenant, this simplifies everything! If you were a pilot, you'd have to spend weeks being trained on how to fly one of our new American planes... whereas you, as a navigator, will require no retraining at all! The only question is which mission to assign you to first... once you're ready to go back up there, of course.”
Davies' final comment suddenly made Antoni stop and think for a moment: Was he truly ready to climb back in a warplane and face death again? He had already been shot down once; it could easily happen again, and he might not walk away from the crash this time.
But at least then he wouldn't be facing death like an animal trapped in a cage, the way he had for the previous two years. Instead, he would be facing death like a soldier... like a warrior... like a man.
And with that thought, Antoni looked Davies in the eyes and said: “I'm ready now, sir.”
Davies smiled. “I'll make the arrangements to find a billet for you.” Davies offered his hand again. “Welcome to the British Royal Air Force, Lieutenant Kolbuszowski!”
This post is an entry for THE REAL LIVEJOURNAL IDOL (therealljidol), Season 10, Week 3. It was inspired by the prompt "Brushback Pitch"... and is based on the life experiences (and dedicated to the memory) of Antoni Kolbuszowski, who was my mother's cousin.