The Legacy of the Curse

Chapter III

Chapter III

Stanisław, one of the few children to survive those harsh times, knew life’s bitterness from his earliest years. He was only ten when he realized his future would be difficult. He stood under an old oak, gazing at the sky, when his father’s raised voice reached him. “We have no more land, Jan!”—those words changed everything.

It was his eldest brother, Jan, who soon met Marianna from the Mieszkowski family. Jan’s parents saw her virtues but remained reserved. Her limited education worried them, and her foreign roots—lacking family history or tradition—deepened their unease. She had left school after second grade when the town’s school burned and remained unbuilt for decades. The Mieszkowskis turned to home education, and Marianna wrote, read, and calculated well—skills Jan’s parents valued. Yet, unremarkable in beauty and a stranger to their customs, she stayed unknown to them. Jan knew he faced a tough challenge before marrying her: money.

“Father…” Jan’s words came heavily, as if each weighed a ton. “Mr. Mieszkowski agrees to the match, but… he demands more land.”

Łukasz slowly raised his head, as if hearing something unexpected. For a long time, he studied his son with his eyes—not with anger, but with weariness. He looked at the papers spread before him—accounts that had stolen his sleep for years.

After a moment, he repeated softly: “More land?”—his voice sharpened. “You know I have almost none left. Your siblings have their rights.”

Jan felt his heart race, stammering an explanation: “When the boys grow, I’ll give them their share”—his voice trembled, words jumbling. “Father, it’s temporary. Mr. Mieszkowski wants security.”

Łukasz sighed loudly, as if the world’s weight pressed on him. He wiped his brow and stared into the fireplace flames in silence. The son felt tension rise, each quiet second weighing heavily.

“And what about your siblings?” the father asked at last, his voice a low rumble. “Józefa has her betrothed, but Marcjanna… Michał, Stanisław…”—the names darkened his face further.

“When the boys grow, I’ll give them what’s theirs,” Jan repeated with resolve.

“Land,” the father muttered to himself. “Always just land…”—pain edged his voice, as if more than fields lay behind it.

Łukasz, once a lively young man, now seemed a frail old figure. He didn’t look at his son, nervously tracing the table’s edge, as if seeking answers in its grain. Perhaps not by chance. That old oak table, scratched and worn by years, might have held much wisdom from past Kilisi disputes.

Jan felt duty’s burden settle on his shoulders. Visions flashed—brothers with empty hands, gazing at him with reproach, maybe hatred. He thought of Marianna—her hopeful eyes and the promises he’d made. His heart raced, torn between family loyalty and a new life.

“Father, I’ll do what’s needed,” he said at last, his voice firm, surprising himself. “I’ll fight for this land, for Marianna, for family. I promise the children will get their share, but now I must secure my future.”

Łukasz stayed silent for a while, then raised his head to read Jan’s face. He stood, leaning on the table, and stepped to the half-open shutter. The warm July breeze carried the smell of cut hay, and the setting sun gilded the room.

“You have your land, Janku,” he said finally, his voice echoing. “But remember, every choice has its price. And you’ll pay it soon.”

The rural clamor of Kosewo summoned guests to Jan and Marianna’s wedding. That warm, bright July evening pulsed with life. The smell of roast pig and fresh bread mixed with the hayfield’s scent. Fiddles and drums played mazurkas, and horses at the fence snorted to the rhythm.

Marianna, in a linen gown with a lace cap, sat among the maidens, her heart fluttering with joy. Jan, in a borrowed frock coat, stood with the elders, sipping spirits from clay mugs. “May they prosper,” old Pawlak muttered. “They have fields, but for how long? Happiness fades when land splits a family.” His words carried bitterness, as if old grudges lingered. “It’s always the same—first laughter, then hard years…”

Jan, watching his young bride, didn’t hear these words. To him, Marianna was a ray of hope, a new start in a world often burdened by duty. When she looked at him, he forgot all worries. Together, they’d overcome everything. He approached her, offering his hand.

“Shall we dance?” he asked with a broad smile.

Marianna answered with an equally bright smile and let him lead her to the floor. The wedding lasted late—their dancing figures outlined by firelight, which seemed to embrace them. Laughter, talk, jests—all wove a picture of life’s new beginning.

A few months later, the young couple settled in a new house built on the Kilisi homestead. Their life soon enriched with two daughters—first Balbina, then Waleria. The first days after Balbina’s birth were tough for Marianna. The new role of mother overwhelmed her, though family stood ready to help. When she first heard her daughter’s cry, something shifted inside—her heart trembled, as if that tiny sound awakened new strength. Holding little Balbina, she felt her place in the world. The child’s wails filled the once-cold, lifeless rooms.

“Life gains new meaning, doesn’t it?” Marianna asked once, smiling at Jan. Jan nodded, gazing at her with a warmth he rarely voiced.

Barely two years later, a second daughter, Waleria, joined their home. Now their life was full—full of laughter, yet new duties too.

With passing years, changes crept into Marianna’s demeanor. From a woman of hope and warmth, she grew cold, focused only on her household’s good. This sad shift was noted by all. Stanisław noticed it too. Though still young, he couldn’t forget how life once was. He recalled the smell of fresh-cut hay, days when, as a small boy, he ran the fields under a high sun. “There was so much hope,” he thought, remembering his father teaching him to till the soil. “All seemed possible.” Now, sitting alone in his home’s shadow, the past’s sounds were distant echoes. Instead of laughter, he heard only long, heavy sighs. “What went wrong?”

In 1884, Marcjanna married Jan Michalski of Pomiechowo and left the family home, and three years later, Łukasz’s youngest son, Michał, died. To keep his promise to his father, Jan had to repay Stanisław or return the land once given. He knew this day would come, but when in 1890 Stanisław planned to marry Rozalia, daughter of Wawrzeniec and Balbina Pawelski, a problem arose.

The Pawelskis, like the Matyasiaks of Kosewo before, were newcomers to the area. Around 1873, Wawrzeniec Pawelski, with money earned building the Tsar’s forts, bought a third of the Śniadowo estate from the local lord and settled there with some children after leaving his native Sarbiewo parish. With his first wife, Rozalia of the Garczyński family, he married on February 18, 1844, still in Sarbiewo. They had four children: Piotr, Marianna, Franciszka—who married Jakub Łęgowski—and Antonina, wife of Tomasz Gruszczak.

After Rozalia’s death in 1869, Wawrzeniec married again in Sarbiewo—this time to Balbina, daughter of Jan Biernacki and Ludwika of the Jankowski family. From this union came twelve children: Władysława Milewska, Rozalia, Helena Celińska, Marianna Wasilewska, Władysław, Antoni, Katarzyna Sadlakowska, Jan, Julianna, Stanisław, and Marianna.

Considering Stanisław’s marriage plans, his parents couldn’t ignore that the Pawelskis were wealthy, while they had nothing left. They did what they could, raising their youngest son, striving to pass on values of faith, piety, and honesty. The young man read and wrote fluently in Polish and Russian, and knew mathematics, history, and geography.

“Stasiu, Janek promised to give you your share,” his mother reminded him as he shared his plans, worrying for her. “Go, son, to Janek.”

The lad, foreseeing how this meeting might end, hesitated to visit. Yet it was his only chance for stability. Marianna, sensing his fears, decided to accompany him on this short but grueling journey. The meeting came quickly, as it was All Saints’ Day.

On the night from October 31 to November 1, people kept watch—as old custom demanded. It was widely believed that on this night the souls of the departed gathered for a silent Mass, led by a priest from beyond. Afterward, they processed solemnly to the graveyard.

It was said that on this one night souls might visit their old homes. So, each left doors and windows ajar, lest a wandering spirit feel barred. In the house, all moved carefully, avoiding disturbing the unseen guest. Before sitting on a bench, one passed a hand through the air, gently shooing the presence away.

Long before All Saints, housewives baked small loaves called peretyczki, adorned with crosses and initials of departed kin. The rivalry in decorating these gifts for souls was nearly sacred, each cross and letter expressing memory and longing. On November’s first day, no fire was lit. It was whispered that souls liked to warm by the stove, and disturbed, they might cause a blaze. On the windowsill waited a bowl of gruel and a bottle of vodka; in some homes, especially in Podlasie, oat kissel was prepared for the spirits.

The custom of “entertaining souls” faded, replaced by memorial prayers said by the priest. Yet the feast’s spirit endured—memory, gratitude, and a desire to stay close to the departed still bound the living and the dead. So it was in 1891, when mother and son went to claim their due.

They had only a few steps to go, yet it felt like the longest road of their lives. They didn’t hurry, as if delaying the meeting and talk as long as possible. They walked in silence, as if each word might stir old grudges. The mother, small and stooped from youth, now bent with age, led her son, whose hunched form showed not just fear but resignation.

They expected no warm welcome, but what followed stunned the woman and hurt more than she’d expected. Still, she wanted to believe her family always shone as an example of virtue. As soon as the yard dogs barked, Stanisław’s sister-in-law appeared at the threshold.

“What do you want here?!” she shouted, barely seeing their shapes. Likely expecting unwelcome guests, she knew their purpose. “After wealth, are you?” she added, her voice trembling with anger. In her hand flashed an axe blade, which she raised slightly, as if deciding whether to strike. “Get out! Or you’ll see what awaits!”

The mother, startled by her daughter-in-law’s words, didn’t show it. She stood straighter, as if regaining old strength.

“We’ve come to speak with Janek,” she said firmly yet calmly. “He promised Stasiu his share. Now’s the time to keep his word.”

Marianna smiled, but it was bitter. She stepped forward.

“Promised, you say?” she asked coldly, almost mockingly. “Janek has his own family now. We must think of our children’s future, not what’s due to others. Your time is past.”

Stanisław stood frozen. He felt each of Marianna’s words pierce him like a knife. He knew his brother’s wife had long disliked him, but now it was clear as day.

“I beg you, Mania,” the mother interjected, striving to stay calm. “Janek himself said he’d give what’s due his brother. He’s family.”

Marianna raised an eyebrow, looking at the old woman with clear impatience. Her voice turned hard, nearly cold.

“Family, you say?” Her words were almost a hiss. “And what good does that do me? Our land is our life. If we give more, what’s left for our children? Balbina and Waleria can’t live on promises and kind words.”

At last, roused by his wife’s raised voice, Jan appeared. He stepped onto the porch, trying to grasp the scene. Stanisław, looking at his brother, first hoped for eased tension. The stern, silent look he received quickly dashed that hope.

“Stanisławie, I’d like to help, but…” Jan paused, unsure what to say. “We have our own troubles. I know I promised, but times have changed.”

The mother tried to speak more, but only gazed mutely at one son, then the other, and whispered bitterly:

“It wasn’t meant to be like this…”

They argued no more.

“Come, son,” Kilisiowa tugged Stanisław’s sleeve, but her voice held no gentleness or warmth. The resignation she carried daily now echoed in every gesture. She was a mother watching her son fall before the world’s eyes, and she could only lead him home—in silence.

Stanisław felt her gaze on him. Yet he couldn’t meet her eyes. How could he? How explain that shame, that pain? He followed her, stumbling over his thoughts. The road back seemed to lengthen with each step.

They were silent, but it wasn’t a peaceful quiet. The silence was heavy with unspoken questions. Why had this happened? Why had their family turned into enemies in their own sight? Each step toward home was a painful reminder of what had just occurred. They knew something in their family had broken forever.

Lack of wealth didn’t stop Stanisław and Rozalia’s wedding. Despite true poverty, young Kiliś had one undeniable asset for the Pawelskis—respect from the people and noble traditions that tied newcomers to locals. There was also something all wished to hide—and that… succeeded for many decades. The young couple stood before the altar of the Cieksyn church on November 25, 1891, and by April the next year, in the Pawelski estate, Anna was born. Her birth record noted: “father unknown.” The child lived only four months, and memory of her birth faded for three generations. No one ever learned who the true father was, and in the family chronicle, some hand wrote only Stanisław’s cryptic words: “Father often said a child of an unlawful bed cannot be loved, yet cannot be unloved. No one understood those words.”

Anna’s arrival raised many questions, but neither Stanisław nor anyone else ever explained who the true father was. Stanisław married pregnant Rozalia, but did he know of her condition before the wedding?

Soon after Anna’s death, the young couple’s ties with the Pawelskis soured. So Stanisław and Rozalia decided to move to Kosewo, hoping for a quieter life. There, on September 18, 1893, their eldest daughter Marianna was born, whom Stanisław loved dearly. For her godfather, they chose Stanisław’s brother-in-law, Franciszek Lewandowski, to strengthen family bonds.

At that time, Rozalia grew close to her husband’s family. “All the good I learned in life came from my mother-in-law,” she’d say in later years. The peace lasted briefly, for all Stanisław’s parents owned now belonged formally to their son Jan. To him, and especially his wife, the prolonged stay of kin grew increasingly irritating. After some months, the young family had to return to Śniadowo.

Meanwhile, in Jan and Marianna’s home, the initial relief of ridding themselves of kin soon gave way to new troubles. On the Feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary in 1895, a fire broke out in nearby Andrzej Pająk’s outbuildings. As the flames spread to adjacent buildings, people decided to tear down some houses to stop the blaze. Among those lost was Jan Kiliś’s home. After the fire, it was never rebuilt. The family settled in Wrona—a place whence, in 1847, Marianna’s parents had moved to Biela in the Płońsk region. In later years in Wrona were born their other children: Stanisław, Kazimiera, Bronisława, and Feliksa.

On September 21, 1895, Stanisław Kiliś saw the birth of his second child—a son, Kazimierz. Wishing to mend strained family ties, he asked his elder brother Jan to be godfather to his son. Despite differences grown between them, Stanisław believed this gesture might warm their relations.

The Kilisis soon learned that the life of estate heirs wasn’t for them. Stanisław had long known he couldn’t count on an inheritance—it was clear before he started his own family. A similar disappointment met Rozalia when she learned of her father’s decision. Wawrzeniec Pawelski chose to divide his land only among three children: his sons Antoni and Władysław took the largest shares, the rest going to Franciszka Łęgowska, daughter of his first marriage. Rozalia, despite her closeness to her father, was completely overlooked in the division.

This choice by Wawrzeniec baffled the rest of the family. Perhaps his pride in his own gains outweighed his feelings—maybe he thought Stanisław should provide for his family himself. One thing was certain: Wawrzeniec wouldn’t fragment the estate he’d so boasted of winning. Coming from humble roots, here in Śniadowo he could play the heir and noble. Would he now lose that for a daughter who married with such shame?

For Stanisław and Rozalia, it was a blow they hadn’t foreseen. Lack of land meant not just lost hope for a comfortable life, but a sense of being cast aside—by both Stanisław’s and Rozalia’s families. Their ambitions and plans for the future began to crumble, and ahead loomed a hard struggle for survival.

Stanisław Kiliś, though young, carried a load of disappointments that grew heavier each year. The sorrow that he couldn’t live at the level he deemed fit for a man and father slowly turned to bitter frustration, which soon filled all aspects of his life. He changed gradually, almost imperceptibly, until one day everyone saw he was no longer the same man. First, he spoke less, listening to talks he once led, but his silence held hidden tension.

With years, he grew rougher and colder. His talk narrowed to one obsession: morality. Stanisław, wounded by his own failures, came to believe he’d regain control of his life by controlling others. His views, though rooted in upbringing, were deeply tied to frustration. He felt master and final judge in moral matters—a role he took for his family, meant to ease him, though it only deepened his inner struggle.

Rozalia, once his partner in daily battles, grew ever more a silent witness to her husband’s decline. In her eyes reflected something Stanisław avoided seeing: the fading shadow of the man he’d been. He didn’t notice—blinded by his bitterness, he fought to maintain control, though all around had long begun to unravel.

When he learned Rozalia was disinherited, he couldn’t reconcile with another failure. In desperation, he decided to return to his parents’ home, believing he’d find the stability he craved. As always, he made the decision—hoping it would be the last word to restore order to his shattered life.

In a few years of relative stability, more children joined the Kilisi home by Kosewo’s pond. In 1897 came Wacław, two years later Stefan, and by the century’s end, Jan. These were years when Stanisław, though briefly, secured a steady post as a teacher in a nearby school. Despite many worries, life in Kosewo brought fleeting peace, and Stanisław gained some respect in that small community, though his reputation wasn’t free of controversy.

At that time, he struck a friendship with Pomiechowo’s parish priest and a Russian officer, which didn’t escape neighbors’ notice. Card evenings with the cleric and officer sparked many spiteful remarks. Nights spent in their company became the talk of local gossip.

One often-repeated tale was that Stanisław forbade his children to sit with those from poor families. People whispered it was pride, though none sought the true cause. Stanisław, living on the edge of poverty, didn’t mean to seem above his neighbors. His ban had other roots—he believed most families’ poverty stemmed from moral decay, not mere need. To him, who sat where was a matter of principle he imposed on his children.

Gossip spread beyond the neighborhood. Even Rozalia’s family hid not their displeasure with some of Stanisław’s habits. Often he was seen by the lake, sitting alone, playing the harmonium—a custom inherited from his father. Though friends admired his skill, to Rozalia’s family it was an unnecessary luxury and proof Stanisław wasted precious time. They thought a father of so many should work, not indulge in music.

The nineteenth century’s end brought the Kilisi family a painful loss—the death of the clan’s eldest, Łukasz Kiliś. He died suddenly on March 8, 1899, and the new century, instead of hope, heralded more trials and ceaseless wandering.

In the next rented dwelling, in Swoboda, two daughters were born—Helena in 1902, and two years later, Wanda. Joy of their births soon dimmed by grim news from the grandparents’ home in Czarnowo. Wojciech, Jan’s son and Michał’s grandson, lost nearly all his inherited wealth at cards. Of the old estate remained only scraps, which Wojciech sold to buy a modest holding in Płońsk. Thus the whole Kiliś patrimony was lost forever.

Marianna Kiliś’s death on December 11, 1906, was a turning point for Stanisław. With his mother’s passing, he lost the last soul to support him unconditionally, and soon fate forced him to seek a new roof. Luckily, ties with the Pawelski family mended temporarily, allowing Stanisław and Rozalia to return to Śniadowo. There, in 1908, their son Ignacy was born. His godparents were Rozalia’s siblings Władysław and Julianna Pawelski, and the witness at church was Antoni Pawelski—this gesture again symbolized warming relations between families.

A kind gesture came from Wawrzeniec Pawelski. He had a small unused plot at three roads’ junction, where he let his son-in-law build a house. Yet Stanisław deemed the gift of about 250 square meters from the vast farm a mockery and rejected it. Soon after, he settled with his family in a rented cottage at Pomocnia. There, in 1910, another daughter, Józefa, was born.

Their stay at Pomocnia ranked among the Kilisis’ hardest times. Their whole homestead then was one small room, to which the owner allowed a tiny lean-to. There pigs were to be raised, and around the buildings stood some beehives. Breeding plans ended with buying three piglets, one of which soon died.

“Mr. Kiliś, sell those two left, for they seem ailing,” a neighbor advised. Stanisław couldn’t imagine deceiving anyone. In time, it was inevitable: the second piglet died, then the third. He didn’t regret his choice—honesty was the cornerstone of his humanity.

Both the Pawelskis and Jan Kiliś’s family often mocked their kinsman, accusing him of laziness. Little truth lay in it. Stanisław, despite frail health, could work hard—as shown when he earned two sacks of wheat, carried them on his back to his nephew’s mill, and asked him to grind the grain into flour.

On July 16, 1912, Innocenta was born. These last births occurred in Śniadowo, for some months earlier the family received a new aid offer from Wawrzeniec Pawelski. In goodwill, he lent the Kilisis part of his land for three years, that they might prosper and secure their future.

Stanisław and Rozalia undertook a desperate, nearly exhausting effort to work the neglected land. The first year yielded nothing, and in the next two, weather disasters ruined the crops.

The Great War’s outbreak at first lightly touched the local people’s life, but unease began to grow. Foresighted dwellers sought to flee regions near Modlin Fortress, while others, deeming safety lay by a strong army, moved there. Among the latter were some of Łukasz and Marianna Kiliś’s descendants, who sheltered at the Lewandowskis’ in Kosewo. Stanisław, fleeing his home, was driven mainly by fear for his elder sons, whom the occupier might conscript.

“There they won’t be sought,” he told his wife and declared: “We flee to Józi in Kosewo.” The Kilisis took only small bundles of clothes and food scraps. The boys, taking turns, carried a cradle Nocia’s father had made, wherein her elder siblings had lain. To everyone’s surprise, Stanisław chose to bring a small wooden table.

The piece held no great value, said to have been crafted long ago by Łukasz Kiliś. When Wacław was born in Kosewo, Stanisław had a long, intense talk with his mother. For nearly an hour, they paced the orchard, debating earnestly. Rozalia, worried by her husband’s long absence, went to find him. From afar, she saw Stanisław with his mother and meant to approach, but something held her back. Unseen, she watched from behind the stable corner. Too far to hear, she gleaned from their gestures the talk was difficult. Stanisław often paused, turning to his mother as if asking, “How can that be? It’s impossible!” At one point, the elder woman took his arm and led him straight toward where Rozalia hid. Luckily, both were so absorbed they passed her by. Thinking herself safe, Rozalia stepped into the yard, pretending to feed the hens. Husband and mother-in-law walked past, as if not seeing her, and entered the house, to the part Marianna Kiliś occupied.

Rozalia, knowing she had no chance to overhear, sat under an old linden and mused, staring at the door. “This I needed,” she thought, seeing Kazik approach. The child must have escaped Ania, who barely managed the two Kiliś children, while youngest Wacek was with a newly hired maid. Rozalia felt relief at this brief peace.

Long passed before she saw her husband emerge, carrying the table—always in his mother-in-law’s dwelling. It was finely made, but age had worn it down. “Why does he carry that?” she wondered, but never asked Stanisław directly, though his care for that old relic puzzled her. She told herself it was some precious family memento.

As German troops neared, Kosewo’s environs filled with more Tsarist soldiers. Russians, due to Modlin Fortress’s proximity, especially Fort II in Kosewo, were a daily sight. For a time, no one heeded the growing soldier numbers, until one day all realized it wasn’t an accident. Awareness came when, one June day, Muscovites entered many yards, ordering: “Убирайся!” (Get out!). Householders became homeless wanderers in hours, their homes taken by Tsarist troops.

A similar fate befell the Lewandowskis. Luckily, they were allowed to stay in a side room, once Marianna Kiliś’s, but Stanisław, his wife, and children moved to an outbuilding.

Crushed by troubles, Stanisław left the house. He paused, gazing at familiar sights now alien. A cold wind blew from Szczypiorno’s forest, cutting through his clothes and lashing his skin. The gray sky, as if mirroring his worries, hung low. He looked at the field, the orchard… now only shadows of the past. Something overwhelmed him, as if the world’s weight settled on his shoulders. He knew it would never be the same, and greater woes loomed.

It was July 1914 when Stanisław, returning from the field, saw his niece running toward him.

“Uncle, uncle!” cried teenage Genia.

“Why are you shouting? What’s wrong?”

“The Muscovites took Uncle’s table!”

“The table from our room?!”

“The same!”

Stanisław hastily set down his vegetable basket and ran to assess. It was found that, in the householders’ absence, Moscow troops had burst in, taking all they could carry, and vanished. The man didn’t wait. Without a word, he disappeared behind nearby buildings. A few hundred meters off, in his old family home, a Russian commander had quarters.

“Где твой командир?” (Where’s your commander?) he yelled at the soldier at the door. When the man, stunned, only gaped, he added louder: “Поговорите, а где Андрей Ласковский?” (Speak, where’s Andrzej Laskowski?)

The soldier, still silent, nodded toward the entrance. At first glance, though no longer young and seasoned in the Moscow army, he hadn’t shed his wild Asiatic traits. Used to shouts from childhood, never had a Pole dared such boldness to raise his voice at a Tsar’s man. Ah, had he but reached for his saber!

Stanisław Kiliś knew his limits. In many nights over cards, he wasn’t always alone with the priest. Often their companion was Andrzej Laskowski, descendant of Polish Siberian exiles, now serving the Emperor as commander of the Russian contingent. A relatively young man, educated and mindful of noble manners, he’d earned his officer’s epaulettes fighting Japanese troops early in the century. He understood Polish well, though his speech mangled it with Russicisms.

“Andrzej! Andrzeju, your thieves robbed me!” cried Stanisław Kiliś as he burst in.

“Robbed? Who? My soldiers?” the officer asked in disbelief.

“Yes, friend! Your thieves robbed me!”

“Stanisławie, I know they steal,” Laskowski sighed, striving for calm. “But here it’s not about justice, but survival,” he added.

Stanisław narrowed his eyes, his face hardening.

“And what about my survival, Andrzeju? What about my family?” he asked dryly, each word cutting the silence. Laskowski sighed, his gaze dropping. He had no answer. The silence between them was more fearsome than words. “I can do nothing, but I forbade them robbing in Kosewo… You know this,” Laskowski recalled. After a moment, as if to himself, he added: “They know you personally, saw us together… who’d dare?… Wait a moment for me.”

The Russian returned after some minutes.

“As I thought,” he began. “My men didn’t rob you.”

“But…”

“Listen… it was indeed Russian soldiers, but not mine. Before dinner, they led new recruits toward Modlin. I learned they ‘visited’ many homes,” he concluded sadly.

“What now!?”

“What did they take?”

“A table, a small wooden table,” Kiliś replied, seeing the Russian’s surprised look, he added sheepishly: “Worth little, but it’s my only memento of my grandparents.”

“Good it’s warm summer…”

“Summer, what’s that to do?”

“See, Stanisław, were it cold, the table’d be firewood. You’d never see it. But now, they guard it well and seek a buyer. Your piece is safe, friend,” the Russian assured with a smile.

After brief counsel, the men agreed one would gather intel on the moving troop, its commander, and station, perhaps identifying the thieves. The other would ask locals if anything was heard of such an item’s sale.

But the Polish participant didn’t mean to limit himself to this. He well recalled his sons, unaware he’d overheard, talking of joining forming Polish units. Kazimierz and Wacław led these plans, though younger Stefan hid not his dream of a Polish uniform. For now, it was unreal, and Stanisław, though a patriot, didn’t dream of his children dying at the front. He wouldn’t hinder their enlistment, but in his heart hoped to part not with them. Now, he resolved to give the lads a taste of war.

Rozalia saw Stanisław return, angry and thoughtful. His steps were heavy, as if carrying not just worries but decisions to make. She knew him too well to miss these signs. He’d first be silent, then hurry, then decide—affecting all.

This time it was different. Barely crossing the threshold, he turned to his sons: “You come with me”—his order was stern, though his voice faintly trembled.

Rozalia instantly looked up from the table, foreseeing trouble. “Stasiu, what are you doing?” she asked, though expecting no answer. Her voice was soft, full of care, but she knew nothing would stop him. Stanisław didn’t glance at her. He crossed the room as if she weren’t there, as if only his sons existed.

“Where are you taking them?” she asked again, more to herself than him.

Stanisław paused a moment. He wanted to explain, but what could he say? That he sent them on a mission from which they might not return? That the old table and its hidden contents outweighed his children’s safety? Those words wouldn’t pass his throat. Without looking at her, he left the room.

Rozalia watched her sons rise wordlessly and follow their father, as if they’d trail him to the world’s end. But did he know where he led? With each minute, she felt something change, something in their family crumble further. As always, she held her peace.

When far enough that no prying ear might overhear, the father began to unfold the matter to his sons. Still not revealing the true value the lost piece held for the family, he told them of the Russian’s words and gave a brief command: they must recover the table, or at least learn where it was kept. He didn’t wait for assent. He gave the order and expected results.

The young Kilisis understood their task. More, they were proud of their father’s trust and couldn’t imagine failing him. Planning began almost instantly. Naturally, retrieving the loot was priority. But they must also ensure internal safety—devising an alibi for a long absence. Mother Rozalia Kiliś might unwittingly thwart plans or endanger her sons. Unlike their father, they deemed some lies justified for a higher, pious end. So it was this time. The pretext became a visit to Rzepkowski cousins in nearby Stanisławów, then called Kolonia Aleksandryjska by the Russians.

Rozalia Kiliś had neither time nor need to pry into Kazik and Wacek’s plans. If their father allowed a kin visit, let them go. But when all seemed on course, an unexpected hitch arose.

“Where are you going?” asked Mania, their eldest sister, seeing their preparations.

“To the Rzepkowskis,” Wacek answered, striving for a carefree tone. “To visit.”

“To the Rzepkowskis…” she repeated with a slight smirk. Her tone hinted something was off.

“Yes, to the Rzepkowskis. Father allowed it,” Kazimierz added eagerly, trying to sound convincing.

“What a coincidence! I too longed for them. I’ll go with you,” she declared, as if decided.

Her brothers well knew where this sudden choice came from. Marianna was not only their father’s firstborn but his favorite. Often she first learned family matters, acting as confidante and even advisor. How often had Mania known things their mother didn’t guess. Stanisław hid nothing from his wife, but didn’t deem all worth consulting her. He was head of the house. In his mind, talks with his daughter and seeking her counsel brought no shame. Doubtless it was so now. If they were right, she knew the truth, perhaps more than they…

“What do we do?” Kazimierz asked, seeking quick resolve.

“Maybe we should pray first…” Wacek suggested.

“Good thought. Let’s borrow uncle’s horses and ride to Mass in the morning.”

“I’ll walk the village and gather some news,” the girl ordered.

When she left, the elder brother spread his hands in helplessness.

“Maybe she’ll prove useful,” the other sighed.

Their brief talk was cut by Stanisław’s approach. This time, against habit, he didn’t call with a gesture but came to them and, without preface, laid out what Laskowski had told. The soldier who took the table now stationed at Kolonia Aleksandryjska.

“Kolonia? That’s where we ride tomorrow!” Wacek exclaimed with zeal.

“I don’t know if you should,” the father interrupted. “The soldier says he sold the table for a flask of spirits. But knows not to whom.”

A silence fell, soon broken by the elder lad: “Well, Father, we’ll consider what to do.”

Stanisław commented not and, as swiftly as he’d come, left. His sons, with nothing else to do, resolved to roam the area, listen, watch… since they knew the culprit, tracing a lead seemed easy.

Alas, that day yielded nothing of note. At dawn, the trio, to their mother’s clear surprise, rose and, per plan, headed to Pomiechowo. The weekday Mass was short, so they soon started back.

“Wacek, ride by the Fort,” Marianna asked her brother driving the team.

“We were there yesterday… have you devised something again?”

“Ride,” she repeated, and when near, ordered: “Lads, wait for me.”

They asked nothing. They knew, with Mania as with Father, one didn’t argue. They veered off and halted the horses in willows’ shade.

“What’s wrong with her?” the younger worried after an hour’s wait.

“She’ll manage, but we’ll catch it for the unreturned horses,” the other noted. “I’ll stay, you ride home, for uncle won’t be pleased.”

Alone, Kazimierz first meant to seek his sister. But soon he abandoned it, knowing they might miss each other. With the front nearing, hundreds of villagers and soldiers in varied, often-ragged uniforms thronged the roads—more tattered than bread-seeking beggars. Straying from the meeting spot was risky. He chose to wait.

Time passed, and Marianna didn’t return. Nor did Wacław, who should’ve taken half an hour—home was barely a kilometer…

“What happened?” Kazimierz called, seeing his brother run toward him after at least three hours.

“Nothing, I had to work off the horses at Lewandowskis’,” the lad laughed, but suddenly, glancing around, grew grim. “Mania’s not back?”

Marianna was absent. She didn’t come in an hour, nor at dinnertime. At last, both brothers decided it was time to tell their father.

Nervous, unsure of their sister’s fate, they minded not the path. Their uncle’s house stood at Kosewo’s edge, so cutting through fields saved minutes and avoided neighbors’ yards. Passing the last rye fields, they saw their father pacing between apple trees. Hands behind, quick steps—unmistakable signs of Stanisław Kiliś’s agitation.

“You’re back already?!” he called, plainly surprised to see his sons. They answered with equal astonishment: “Father, how ‘already’…?”

“It’s found that Mania just went to you…”

“Mania? To us???”

It was found that, running home, the boys had crossed paths with their sister, who, coming from nearby Janowo, meant first to report to their father. Now she’d gone where they’d parted hours before. They didn’t run after her. They must gather the latest news, and it was vital. It was learned Marianna, parting them east of Kosewo through woods, reached Szczypiorno.

That village wasn’t wholly strange to her. Though its known beginnings traced to King Jagiełło’s time, it was small—some dozen huts, shops, and the lord’s manor. Also the forester’s seat… Often Kilisiówna passed there en route to kin, be it Goławice or further Czarnowo… Now she learned the lost table fell to the local Forestry official. He saw it was no valuable antique, but worth the price the wild Asiatic in Russian garb demanded.

Marianna’s joy at this news didn’t last. Per the forester’s tale, the soldier, once paid, forced its return at bayonet point. The Pole yielded and was glad to lose not the rest of his rubles.

“The Muscovites head to Janowo, likely Fort Błogosławie, follow them,” the forester advised. Marianna heeded. What followed was still unknown. Returning to her father, she knew the new owner’s name. That sufficed her brothers.

“We go!” they cried together.

“Wait!” their father called. “First, I’ll give you something”—leading them to an old, sunken stone cellar. Not at his own, but in war he felt at his brother-in-law’s nearly as home. Soon reappearing in sunlight, he held a store of food. Thrusting ham, sausage, and a cream bottle into their hands, he ordered: “Now go. And… God bless you.”

It was the usual supper hour when the young Kilisis set out. Their father knew they faced over seven kilometers and didn’t expect them soon. When they didn’t reach by night, he grew anxious. Rozalia too, who’d never before dared oppose her husband, began to chide him.

“Wood scraps mean more to you than our children’s lives?” she cried in despair.

“What are you saying?” he retorted, voice raised. The exchange quickly turned to open quarrel, odd enough that a lamp lit in the Lewandowskis’ window, cooling their tempers. “You understand nothing,” he muttered, then louder to the children’s heads above pillows: “Sleep.”

That night, no one slept. Stanisław knew his nearest must deem him a heartless oddity, sending his children into the enemy’s hands for some old, worthless table. He too doubted his choice. He told himself, worst case, the lads might be beaten and return empty. Nothing worse could befall, for Russians were savages, yet treated these lands as theirs. The area’s familiarity to Moscow troops might also stem from colonies where Russians were a significant, often majority, presence—not just in Kolonia Aleksandryjska, a spiritual hub for invaders, but even Szczypiorno, where the Tsar bought land for new settlers.

The risk, he calculated, wasn’t great. Yet what terrified him was the chance of the table’s hidden contents falling to wrong hands—unknown even to his closest. “Should Muscovites reach the cache, it’s half a woe,” he reasoned. “Kacaps don’t know Polish.” Worst, they’d burn a history penned by generations.

“Should that book fall to Polish hands…”—this thought struck him suddenly, as from his deepest fears’ abyss. He felt stifled, his heart raced, cold sweat ran down his back. Was this truly why he risked his sons?

His mind still circled the old table. Not a simple, nearly meaningless piece, it had gained much weight. It was more than wood. Heritage and memory. His clan’s blood, locked in those yellowed pages, written by forebears. But was it worth it? His father’s words returned like an echo. “Honor, son, is not something lost and regained. It’s a treasure you guard all your life.” And now he, Stanisław, would yield it? No gold could repay that loss.

Yet… could he watch his sons walk into the enemy’s maw?

He clenched his fists. He knew what Rozalia would say when she learned. “How can you send them to certain doom? For what? For a wood scrap?” He heard that voice, full of pain and blame. “But what could she know? She wouldn’t understand,” he thought bitterly. A woman, though good and devoted, didn’t bear that burden, that duty. On him lay the family’s honor’s weight. He must do it.

Morning brought no good news, nor did the day, dusk, or the next. The home’s air grew tenser. Surprise, even concern at the boys’ absence was noted by the Lewandowskis, sharing the house, ever crossing paths, talking, living common concerns. They couldn’t miss someone’s sudden lack, and stranger, no one spoke of it.

On the third day since Kazimierz and Wacław’s departure, their father resolved to act. “I go to Laskowski,” he confided to his wife. Rozalia, first startled he told her his intent, couldn’t hold a barb: “At last!”

He didn’t answer. So lost in thought, he may not have heard her. He must go to Laskowski. That officer was now his only hope to find his sons. Nearly running, he reached the familiar building where the Polish exile’s descendant long dwelt and commanded soldiers.

Only when Stanisław Kiliś reached the porch did he note something was off. Not as usual. No soldiers loitered, none pretended to guard entrants… All around rang empty silence. The only noise came from neighboring yards and the road, where men and horses drew war machines. German troops neared Modlin, so Muscovites concentrated all forces in the fortress and its forts. Laskowski must have gone with them.

“What to do, what to do?” Stanisław Kiliś leaned on the wooden rail and thought. He saw no sense in seeking his sons alone. Too great a throng of new, unknown troops. Too vast a mass… Yet waiting idle was unbearable. “I must go, maybe I’ll find a trace,” he resolved and set out, telling the first kin met: “I go to Błogosławie. Tell Rozalia.”

He hadn’t gone two kilometers beyond Kosewo’s last huts when a familiar voice reached him from afar. He turned. Then he saw Marianna running along the forest’s edge:

“Papa, Papa, the boys are back!” she cried joyfully, and he wanted to know no more. He didn’t ask… it was enough his sons were home, alive. He didn’t heed the “Papa” he hated, demanding “Father” from his children. They nearly ran home, hands tightly held. She, a joyful young woman, and he, suddenly youthened and strong. Both felt they’d regained those whose return they’d nearly despaired of. The gate, usually barring the Lewandowski yard, stood open. Just beyond, all gathered—Stanisław’s nearest and his sister Józefa’s. In scant minutes, news of the lads’ return drew a dozen from fields, orchard, stable, and home’s depths. The two heroes, seeing their running father, raised what he knew well. Wacław and Kazimierz returned not just whole and sound, but with the recovered table!

The welcome and joy didn’t last long. Both lads were extremely weary, and their faces plainly showed they’d endured much, perhaps too much.

Next morning, all meant to ride to a thanksgiving Mass. They didn’t go. Fights that broke out paralyzed the area for ten days. Neither Kazimierz, nor Wacław, nor Marianna would tell anything of what befell them in those last days.

“Father, the main thing is we’re now ready to join our army,” the younger son whispered. His father guessed some great, fearsome adventure lay behind, too dire to revisit. Unwont to show feeling, much less weakness, this time he made an exception. He hugged his son tight and whispered in his ear. “Good, Father,” the lad replied aloud and went to seek Marianna.

After a brief talk, the siblings parted. Wacław vanished with the table recovered the day before, while Mania assigned daily tasks to the younger. No one found this odd, for the girl, though not shirking work, liked, with father’s leave, to oversee her siblings. When done, she went straight to the room where she sought her mother. “Mama, Father bids you come,” she said to Rozalia at the stove. “I’m laundering,” the woman grunted, but took off her apron and followed. They headed to the orchard but stopped beyond old bushes by the oat-sown field.

When Kilisiowa saw her husband and two eldest sons by the all-too-familiar table, she nearly fainted.

“What’s happened?” she gasped, regaining her voice.

“Rózia, nothing’s wrong,” Stanisław answered with a smile and a warmth strange to him. “Nothing’s wrong. You’ve earned to know the truth of this table and why it’s so important”—he added, nearing the piece and turning its top to the grass. Kneeling, he began to pry with a chisel in hand.

While all watched with keen interest, only Marianna seemed somewhat bored, as if little moved by what shocked others. This didn’t change when, after some minutes, Stanisław removed a board and drew out a bundle wrapped in rags.

“It’s not the table that holds value for us, but this”—he said, raising what seemed a set of booklets bound by thick twine. “It’s the history of our kin,” he added solemnly. “Here’s written of misfortunes that fell on the Kilisis each generation, as if a curse hung over us”—he unwittingly echoed his mother’s words of decades past. He meant to say more, but his elder son cut in:

“Father, why was it hidden?”

“My boy, I read you Mickiewicz’s poems… do you recall these lines: ‘There be truths a sage tells all men, some he whispers to his nation, some he shares with home’s friends, some he may reveal to none’”—Stanisław Kiliś quoted from memory. “So it is with us,” he added. “In this book are words no stranger should read… Your forebears penned it over several centuries. I too wrote here years ago.”

“Was there a crime among us?” Wacław cried, impatient with the riddle.

“Crime? Oh, no, no crime was,” the father barely held back a laugh. “Though once, still on Lithuania, something occurred that might set tongues wagging. Moreover, this book warns us of a curse…”

Had not Stanisław Kiliś ever borne the repute of a grave, truthful man, his words might’ve been taken as a joke. Instead, they sparked unbridled curiosity. Naturally, Rozalia first grasped the find. Alas, unable to manage the old, partly faded manuscript, she passed it to Kazik. He, like his brother, well-schooled by their father, read excellently.

“Children, guard this book as you guard yourselves,” the father advised. “It’s not just paper, it’s our tale, our memory of those who came before, of their lives. They too suffered, loved, and, most important, lived for us. This holds meaning so long as we remember them.”

“And that curse? Still…”—Kazimierz seemed to press a point that moved him more than the recorded tale.

“It’s long since anything happened to link with that curse,” the father cut in. “Maybe it’s just human chatter. But here our story’s written. That’s what matters”—he stressed firmly, though then, nor ever after, knew how greatly he erred.

The yard’s bushes were no fit place for such talk or reading. After a short while, all was deferred.

The secret this quintet held from that day cemented their bond in a special way for life. Both kin and strangers blamed the Kilisis for favoring their three eldest… yet it was this secret that united them.

The Great War passed the family with no great tragedies. The Kilisis remained some years more at the Lewandowskis’. The family’s dearest piece was officially entrusted to eldest son Kazimierz. But he soon ceased as guardian of family secrets. Going to war with the Bolsheviks, he meant to give the table to his beloved sister. She, knowing writing wasn’t her strength, refused. At last, Wacław took it.

From that time, the Chronicle holds few records. “Kazik went to war, and no word comes,” Wacław wrote in a diary style early 1920, noting local conditions: “Home’s very hard. Good little Jadzia thrives, Nocia, as ever sickly”—he marked. Nocia, or little Innocenta, was worst off of the numerous siblings. Parents’ care focused on the youngest, the elder learned to cope, while Nocia, last to the bowl, first to chores. “Mania knows how to manage life. She took a mother’s role at home, though sometimes it’s more overseer. To have peace from the children, she often bids them clean spoons or dust. Yet thanks to her, order holds when parents toil,” he ended sadly.

The chronicler recounted two tales, though strange, penned with deadly earnest and trust in Stanisław Kiliś’s words, a man known for unwavering honesty. “Father never lied”—Wacław stressed, words repeated in the family through generations, becoming local heritage.

The first tale, rousing both wonder and dread, concerned a dead mother of a newborn. Though she died in childbirth, her presence seemed to watch over the babe. Each day, at the same hour, villagers saw a limping figure head to the homestead. It was the child’s mother, known by her gait—she had a shorter leg and limped clearly. “The Lame One comes, it’s near eleven,” reapers said. In the child’s home, at that moment, came a suckling sound, and the infant—fed by an unseen breast—calmed, clearly sated.

This story was told locally with such certainty no one dared question it. The second, equally astonishing, occurred when Stanisław and a farmer friend drove to Warsaw market with goods. Before dawn, passing Nowy Dwór, they entered hilly, wooded land. Along a glade, they spied a flock grazing in morning mist. Among them stood a mighty ram, which suddenly leapt onto their wagon. Amazed, they watched it nuzzle one man, who instinctively stroked it, saying: “Poor lamb, poor lamb.”

To their shock, the ram gazed at the man and, in a clear human voice, replied: “Poor lamb, poor,” then leapt off and rejoined the flock as if nothing strange occurred. Stanisław and his companion, stunned, spoke not of it until journey’s end, but on returning told the village of this marvel.

Wacław noted the whole village took the tale as truth, only because Stanisław Kiliś, whose words were never doubted, was involved. “Had it not been him, no one’d believe,” they said. The story was written in the family chronicle, though it teeters between faith and reason. To those who knew Stanisław, no doubt remained: if he said it, so it was.

Contrary to later judgments, Zakroczym Land’s people lived not in ignorance’s haze or superstition early twentieth century. They knew history and national literature. Due to widespread poverty, they often cited works touching social and living woes. Most discussed was the tale of a beggar who ordered soup boiled on a nail from a farmer.

For years, they also told of local beggar Wróbel, who, invited to a rich farmer’s dinner, begged so many refills he died of twisted guts. This misfortune also marked the Pomiechowo priest’s great tactlessness. “Haven’t you seen dumplings, man?” he asked at the funeral Mass. “Yes, likely long not,” they commented with pity for the dead.

Christmas 1919 brought the Kiliś family no joy or peace, usual to the season. The Good News of Christ’s birth was overshadowed by the Spanish Flu sweeping Europe. The plague spared not Mazovia. Wacław wrote in a note: “All around us sicken. Don’t know if we’ll live, though Wandzia, caring for us, assures we’ll heal.” His words, full of fear, hid a grimmer foreboding, expressed later: “She, merriest of us, believes she alone will die.”

Alas, it was prophetic. Early 1920, Wanda, ever lively and hopeful, suddenly fell ill. Her state worsened alarmingly. On January 11, barely moving her lips, she whispered: “A Lady all in white came for me…” Those were her last words.

Wacław’s role as chronicler soon ended when, late summer 1920, he too joined the army. His last entry noted Kazimierz’s wounds at Kiev and his bloody dysentery, ending in hospital.

Mid-1921, both brothers returned home. Wacław, awarded the Cross of Valor, chose to stay in the military, joining the Border Protection Corps. Younger Stefan followed, both settling near Krzynowłoga Wielka on the Republic’s border with East Prussia.

Early twentieth century, Stanisław and Rozalia’s children began their own families. Kazimierz, soon after war, following his grandfather, took work on Modlin Fortress’s rebuilding. A year later, in 1922, he wed Stefania Łęgowska, his mother’s cousin, and with earnings bought a field in Janowo, building a three-room wooden house.

Marianna too sought to build a life. During the Bolshevik war, she met a legionary, planning a family. God willed otherwise. The lad didn’t return from a nearby battle.

Wacław, living north, met Teodozja of the Kołakowski family, wedding her in 1925 and having four children. His father, Stanisław, paid for this with his health.

“It’s not how our family should be,” he cried, learning his son not only worked the Prussian border but meant to live there. “Enough of moves and lost kin,” he added softer, feeling his protest futile. It was the first of many blows from his children’s marriages.

In 1926 came Ignacy’s wedding to Helena of Łabędy and Helena’s, against her father’s will, to Kosewo’s Antoni Szcześniak. For Stanisław, this was doubly painful. The Szcześniaks, though once different, he now deemed of shaky morals and weakly tied to Church. Worst, the suitor was linked to Moscow-inspired Polish communist plots.

“She’s seen peasant breeches,” Stanisław Kiliś shouted as Helena ran to meet the unfortunate choice. He didn’t bar the marriage. It endured, though Antoni was often, in anger, called a hired hand by his wife, which he remained.

Greater uproar came when daughter Józefa wed her kinsman, Lucjan Kiliś of Pomiechowo. The groom was variously related to his future father-in-law, Stanisław. To marry, they sought a Church dispensation. This convinced not Stanisław. To the end, he opposed, never revealing why he withheld blessing. People thought him deeming the suitor too poor, though Lucjan’s state outdid Stanisław’s. The truth was other, known only to three of his children. To the rest, it was just the old man’s quirk.

The wedding occurred in Pomiechowo on November 22, 1931, amid scandal. Józefa, shortly before, fled to aunt Józefa Lewandowska and never returned home. Kazimierz, then keeping the Book, noted: “Father took this hard. Ever nervous and reserved, now he’s very fiery. His speech changed. He talks so fast words are hard to catch, and he takes this misunderstanding as malice.”

Then likely came a tale whispered in the family: A neighbor, whose bees swarmed, knowing Stanisław Kiliś a beekeeper, knocked to borrow a rojnicy. In the householder’s absence, his wife lent it, which later displeased Stanisław. He believed such decisions his as head. First it was said he made a tavern brawl with his wife, but the story grew to claim she was sorely beaten. No doubt remains Stanisław was nervy and couldn’t bear, as a man, failing to sustain his family at the level he deemed worthy, thus valuing all appearances and rules.

It was late fall, after Józefa’s wedding to Lucjan, when Stanisław returned home greatly agitated. Slamming the door, he sat at the table, head in trembling hands.

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“Father, what’s wrong?” cried Marianna, seeing his strength fade. “Papa!”

She got only incoherent babble. Stanisław groaned, resting his forehead on the table. His left arm fell limp, his right, quivering, tried to hold his head. In vain.

“Papa, I’ll help you to bed,” she whispered, grasping his arms.

Accustomed to ruling each step, he seemed not to grasp what passed. Could he, he’d have chased Mania off. How dared she drag him to bed unasked? Now helpless, he depended on others’ will. He couldn’t protest nor aid her. Marianna, eldest and strongest, tallest of all, easily got him to bed. “Papa, what ails you?” she asked again, getting only dull moans.

Marianna never wished to learn. To her parents’ chagrin, she finished only two grades. She preferred aiding home and minding younger siblings. This often meant finding calming tasks, like spoon-cleaning or tidying. Yet from youth, she showed a peculiar life-wisdom and vast general knowledge, whence no one knew. So it was now.

“Mama, Father’s had a stroke,” she cried through the reopened door.

Rozalia didn’t answer a word but rushed in. Kneeling by the bed, she echoed her daughter: “Stasiek, what ails you?”

Again, he couldn’t reply, but his terrified gaze showed his fright. He must have suffered greatly, for tears ran down his wrinkled cheeks, and a sad moan filled the room. Next day, kin of both spouses began arriving. A sister from Kosewo, the Pawelskis, Kilisis… When the sick man grew weary of the din, they resolved to give him peace. After hours of bustle, talk, and wailing, life normalized. Only the Kiliś hut changed.

Days passed, the sick man slowly regained speech but rose from bed no more. Thence, their sole support was ten zlotys sent by elder sons, Polish army noncoms. Getting it was hard. Marianna, like most siblings, short but strong like her grandfather Kiliś, now toiled beyond measure. Rain or shine, she walked twenty kilometers to Zakroczym’s post for the money, yet this spared her not gathering wood, cooking, washing for sisters, mother, and bedridden father, nor fetching water a kilometer at Śniadówko, then called Zatoka.

“Stop, or I shoot!” she heard a shout from the brush while gathering kindling in Uncle Władek’s wood. Turning, seeing her mother’s brother aim a shotgun, she set down her load, then, turning back, bent slightly.

“Shoot then,” she called, pointing to her lower back. No shot came, so she took her gather and left without farewell. Troubles arose not just in private woods. Locals were harassed by a forestry official. The forester paid the ultimate price. Caught by women, he was tied in an anthill. All knew the culprits, none told.

On one daily trip to Śniadówko, Marianna met Stanisław Chojnacki, her future husband. He, with a cow’s worth from her home, built a one-room cottage on a five-acre plot rented from the Śmieszny family at Szczypiorno’s edge. A few steps off lived the Szcześniaks. The Chojnaccis didn’t share alone—a tiny room was added for Marianna’s parents and youngest sisters.

Unlike most in Szczypiorno, Marianna feared not the world. Her famed family trips were to her brothers—by train with changes, then a prearranged wagon to Świniary, Janowiec Kościelny, or Leśnik.

Stanisław Kiliś, after years of illness, died January 7, 1935. He was buried in Pomiechowo’s parish cemetery, where his grave lasted to the twenty-first century’s start.

A year and a half later, Jadwiga wed Czesław Kamiński. The wedding was held in the wood opposite the Chojnacki home, and soon the young bought a plot from the Kielak family. Beyond, past the Jankowski stead, lived the Szcześniaks.