Camp Ohio Resident Olga Swiderski Katchan’s Escape From ‘Paradise’

March 8, 2019.  One of the exceptional former residents of Camp Ohio who has tirelessly helped to clarify events, helped with acronyms and difficult translation phrases, and photo identification, is Dr. Olga SWIDERSKI KATCHAN, a retired psychologist who was Senior Lecturer in the Department of Psychology at the University of Sydney in Australia.  Her memory of events that occurred during the Camp Ohio years, knowledge of history, and fluency in several languages is without equal. Part of Olga’s story was told when she provided the background information for a profile on her father, Mykola SWIDERSKI.  (See Camp Ohio Resident Mykola Swiderski)

After reading the blog posting about Roman BEREZOWSKY, Olga was struck by the similarities in the exodus made by his parents.  (See Camp Ohio Resident Roman Berezowsky).  She wrote that she enjoyed reading “about Dr Roman Berezowsky. It was most interesting to discover that his parents shared, as me and my Mother did, an escape from the ‘liberated’ Western Ukraine in January 1940. My Mother had also attempted to join the Poznan bound crowd but was unsuccessful and we had to do it the hard way.”

Olga Swiderski in Camp Ohio in 1948. (Photo courtesy of O. Katchan)

A few years ago, Olga had related the dramatic journey taken by her mother Elisabeth (nee VON WIEDENBACH) and herself, referring to it as the Escape From ‘Paradise’.  She now shares this story of how, after many frightening moments, they were able to be reunited with Olga’s father and brother.  It’s a testament to the courage, ingenuity, and determination it took to leave during the Soviet occupation of Ukraine.

“The year was 1939. I was 11 years old and lived in Warsaw, the capital of Poland, with my parents and brother Nick, 19 at the time. There was talk of war and we were taught how to use gas masks. On the 22nd of June the school year finished and Mother and I set off for Pochaiv, where I had spent the first 10 years of my life (we moved to Warsaw in 1938) and where we still had a home.

We were to spend the summer holidays there and return to Warsaw at the end of August for the beginning of the new school year. It was wonderful to see my old friends again and my birthplace, a tranquil small town built around a 13^th century monastery. I did miss my father and my brother, but Dad surprised me on my birthday in July by coming over for 2 days. He brought with him a present and a warning. We were not to return to Warsaw as planned. War was imminent and Warsaw would be the first target. We would be safer in the country.

Dad was right- Germany attacked Poland on the lst of September and Warsaw was being bombed. All communications were cut and we could only pray for Dad’s and Nick’s safety. As Poland surrendered, we were in for a new surprise. Our part of the country was to be occupied by Soviet Russia. They were to ‘liberate us from the Polish yoke’, as they put it. Their army marched in, some soldiers being billeted in our house. School reopened and I joined, to be faced by a new regime. We no longer curtsied to our teachers, nor did we address them as Mr or Miss. They were now our ‘comrades’, to be addressed by their patronyms. The day of the October Revolution was celebrated with a concert and a march through the town.

Around that time a messenger arrived from Warsaw. Dad and Nick were alive and wanted us back. How? There was now a border between us. Mother found out that it was being opened occasionally at Przemysl, a town west of Lviv, and one was allowed to cross the bridge. Mother decided we would go to Lviv and from there travel to Przemysl. It was getting cold and we had only our summer dresses.

Photo credit: http://www.mapquest.com

Somehow we managed to procure a pair of warm cardigans and leaving everything behind, but wearing several layers of our clothing, we set out. A couple with a daughter my age were also leaving for Lviv and had hired a car.

We joined them and found a room in Lviv which we then shared. It had straw mattresses on the floor and, mercifully, a pot belly stove. This was to be our home for the next 6 weeks. My friend and I amused ourselves by joining every queue to buy sweets while her parents and my mother were looking for an escape route. The border at Przemysl remained shut.

Christmas came and we were still there. Our only Christmas treat was some fudge we managed to make from our bounty of sweets. The weather turned foul. It was now – 36^o Celsius and we huddled around our pot belly stove, devouring a couple of books we managed to buy. Mine was a geography textbook and I was into Australia.  Little did I know then that 10 years later Fate would take me there.

A few days after Christmas, Mother announced that she had been given an address of a guide in a small village right on the border who could lead us across the now frozen river. This information had cost Mother her gold watch. The question now was to get there. A bus could take us to the nearby town of Rava-Ruska and from there we would have to go by sleigh.

Early in the morning we said goodbye to our friends and set out for the bus stop. The cold was frightening, but we were warmed by the thought of escape and reunion with Dad and Nick.  We waited all day. The bus never came. Frozen stiff, we returned to our friends. I was given some warm beer to thaw me out.

The next morning we were off again.  Mother found out that the bus left from the bus depot, where one had to bribe the driver to get aboard. We did, and after many hours of swaying in a very overcrowded vehicle, we arrived in Rava-Ruska. It was New Year’s Eve.

Mother left me at the railway station, where the waiting room had a pot belly stove, and set off to look for shelter. I sat there amusing myself by thinking how I could relate our adventures to Dad from a funny perspective. Russian soldiers would come in and survey the scene. I tried to ignore them and they left me alone.

At long last Mother came back. Night had fallen and the cold was once again unbearable, but she had found some people willing to help us. Their warm house seemed like heaven. We were now accustomed to straw mattresses, and after some warm food we slept like babes. The New Year dawned. Children arrived with traditional New Year’s wishes, strewing corn to ensure a good harvest. Mother gave them some money and they departed happily.

The following day we were on a sleigh dressed like peasants, with only a small basket with food, heading for Uhniv, a small village directly on the border. We arrived in front of the designated shop and Mother went in, but soon came out looking ashen. The man was no longer there. We had nowhere to go and night had fallen once again. Suddenly a young woman emerged from the shop. “Come with me”, she whispered. “I shall give you shelter and help you.” We trudged after her. She took us to her farmhouse and said she knew someone who could take us across the border as soon as he had a group large enough to warrant the risk (his fee was quite high). We shared a meal and went to bed. Mother and I slept on a narrow bench behind the door in a small room adjoining the main one.

In the middle of the night we were awakened by loud banging on the door. “Open up, we have been told you are harbouring some people trying to escape.” Russian soldiers! Mother and I froze.  Our hostess let them in. “l have no one, as you can see.” “Then why are you trembling?” “What do you expect, waking me up in the middle of the night, alone with a small child” (she had a little girl). They looked around and left. We breathed a sigh of relief.

Two days later we were told to be ready for the crossing late at night. It was now the 4th of January and a blizzard was raging outside, with visibility almost nil. We walked to another farmhouse where a sleigh was waiting, with some people already huddling on it. We set off. The guide warned us that should we encounter some border guards we were to maintain that we were visiting another farm and had lost our way in the blizzard. Suddenly he panicked. ‘We have, indeed, gone too far. Let’s get off and run. The guards will be here soon” (He knew their schedule). We all ran across the frozen river. A child fell and cried, but was picked up and carried the rest of the way. “The guards are coming. Form a circle and crouch. We shall hopefully look like a shrub from a distance.” We did and froze.

Two shadows moved across the horizon on the other side of the river. They did not detect us. Fifteen minutes later we were told to resume our march through the deep snow, all 5 kms of it.  Mother fell at one stage into a ditch and got wet, but once I had helped her to get out, there was no time to waste. We had to keep up with the others. Finally we reached a farmhouse with warm food and shelter.

The following morning we were taken by sleigh to the railway station to wait for a train to Warsaw. There was one in the afternoon and we boarded. German soldiers helped us. I was sick over one of them, but he gave me some of his cognac and I revived. An unexpected act of kindness, from unexpected quarters. Our compartment was full of escapees from ‘paradise’, as everyone referred to the Soviet occupied territory. I slept on Mother’s shoulder the whole night. In the morning we caught our first glimpse of the outskirts of Warsaw. What terrible devastation!

We arrived at an outlying station, but were able to find a doroshka (a horse drawn open cab) to take us to our apartment. We could not believe our eyes: rubble, rubble, and more rubble, and an overpowering stench of broken gas pipes.

Our block of apartments still stood, but the flat below us had been hit and we were greeted by a huge gaping hole. It did not matter. We were home. Dad was overjoyed and so were we. The only sad part was that Nick was in hospital, seriously ill, and since all the pipes were frozen, we had no central heating and no inside toilet. We huddled around the stove in the kitchen, the only habitable room.

It was now the 6th of January and according to the Julian calendar, observed by our Church, Christmas Eve. Our janitor, who heard about our arrival, came knocking on our door, bearing a fully decorated Christmas tree. Amid the misery and sadness, yet another act of kindness.

The following day we went to church to thank God for our deliverance, but not before Dad had bought me a pair of felt boots so that I could cope with my frostbite. Mother’s wrapping of my feet and legs with newspapers did not prevent it. In the afternoon we visited Nick who was getting better and all was well, at least for the time being…..”

Olga Katchan on her 90th birthday in 2018. (Photo credit: Robin Hall)

Thank you to Olga for sharing the story of her traumatic exodus from Ukraine, the first of many events that Olga and her family had to face, as related in the blog posting about her father. It’s wonderful to have such an eye-witness account. What an experience!

Do you have a story of your own that you’d like to share? Comments can be made on this blog or by sending an email to dariadv@yahoo.ca. Don’t forget to check out the photos on our website at http://www.dpcamps.org/burgdorf.html.

Upcoming 2019 Camp Ohio Reunion: Want to learn more about Camp Ohio? Would you like to meet some of the former residents and their families? A reunion is being planned in beautiful Prince Edward Island, Canada July 9 to 12 in 2019. Meet up with old friends, make new ones, share memories and photos!

© Daria Valkenburg