The River Oder forms a natural border between Poland and Germany as it travels north towards the Baltic Sea. If you follow the river south, however, you will eventually reach the town of Borzirac, where I found myself in the late summer of 2015. I had been hired to teach English at a private school and it was there that I met Anna. She was in her late sixties, and through her smile she gave the impression of someone who had a lot of secrets. Over the course of our lessons together, she revealed to me that her mother had died recently and she had never known her father. During what was to be our last meeting, she started telling me about the village where her mother grew up during the Second World War.
“Everybody was afraid of them,” Anna said.
The next thing I know, I'm standing in a forest surrounded by soldiers.
“Don't worry,” a muffled voice says – I'm not sure if it's Anna's. “Nobody can see you.”
One man points his rifle in my direction, as if sensing my presence. Another soldier says something in Russian and the men, all in green uniforms, creep towards the edge of the forest. I follow them out into a clearing where I see a small house with a steep sloping roof.
“My grandmother's house,” says the voice. “Quickly!”
The front door is ajar. Inside, the light from an open fire fills the room. A girl is sitting at a table and weeping.
“What's the matter?” says a woman approaching.
“I don't want to wear these clothes,” the girl says. She is dressed like an old woman, even though she looks about twelve years old.
“If you don't wear these clothes, the soldiers will hurt you.”
There is fear and anger in the woman's voice. She pulls a red silk scarf over the girl's head, then fetches a walking stick from the other side of the room.
“Now, walk like I showed you.”
The girl, stooping slightly, takes hold of the walking stick and shuffles forward on the creaking floorboards.
“Good, but remember to keep your head down so that the soldiers cannot see your face.”
“Enough,” said Anna.
I was back in the classroom, feeling as though I had awoken from a dream.
“What just happened?” I asked, but Anna was already at the door. As she turned to say goodbye, I noticed something red in her hand. A scarf.
That evening, walking home along the bank of the river, I stopped at the Russian Army monument, discreetly placed behind some trees. It was impossible to tell the heroes from the villains among all the names of soldiers killed in the Upper Silesian offensive of 1945. The only thing I was certain of at that moment was the mighty rush of water beside me.
A native of north-west England, John has been writing poetry and prose for a good few years now. He also teaches English as a foreign language.
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