[From ARCHIWUM] Aleksander Rybczyński - 97 passengers

Thursday morning, N called. He asked if he would like to fly with the president to Katyn. He apologized for the late invitation, explaining it with long-term, harassing government maneuvers, aimed at minimising the rank of presidential tribute to the fallen in Katyn crime of Poles. He did not want to go into detail, but claimed that the case was serious adequate to importantly disrupt the preparations for this event. The invitation gave him the thought of an invitation a fewer days ago to the President, motivating this favorable impression that the writer's presence in specified a carefully selected delegation might have. The alleged artistic community was fond of bitey remarks and more or little intrusive attempts to ridicule the President. His presence, the presence of an appreciated mediate generation author could at least symbolically challenge this dubious position quo. He would besides have the chance to gather unique material, large emotional and historical importance," N. He didn't gotta convince him for long. He himself knew precisely how large the pilgrimage would be. His full youth was a laborious investigation into the fact about Katyn. The truths initially impertinently hidden and covered with German guilt, then effectively overlooked in pseudo historical publications, school textbooks and the massively celebrated anniversary of planet War II events.

He was to arrive Saturday morning at the airport in Warsaw.

He was 1 of the first to wait for the President. Coffee was served, the conversations were under way. He sensed an elevated temper and atmosphere akin to preparations for going out at All Saints' celebrations. He easy succumbed to this mood; the savagely murdered in the Katyn crime had specified a peculiar place in the Polish, fresh past that, like most of the countrymen, he treated them as members of the closest family; those who gave their lives strengthening the heroic structure of the national ethos. Yes, yes, he did not forget the vile, increasingly frequent voices of contempt for those who desired to live only in the present day and a hard-to-explained future without human full wrinkles of suffering and face sacrifice. They were outraged by the constant tearing of the wounds and crying for silence over the coffins. They always appeared erstwhile emotion and temper prevailed over the commonness and misery of reality. These beautiful glows of collective identity burned them in uncontrolled explosions of powerless opposition. This peaceful and solemn morning they were fortunately absent. Their moment, however, was to come, ominously fast.

The president didn't keep him waiting long. He greeted everyone and rapidly headed for the plane. He himself walked in silence at the end of the procession. He barely knew anyone personally, and in fact, he enjoyed the function of a silent observer. He was most impressed by uniformed generals following the president to the plane. He looked at the colors, the charge and the fashion of their uniforms, like a artist making a commemorative sketch to the historical scene. Moving slow toward the entrance, he watched them vanish from a distance in the open, dark interior of Tupolawa. erstwhile his turn came, he took the seat indicated by the stewardess close the tail of the plane.

After making certain no 1 was missing, the door was locked and Tupolav began to taxi to the runway. He turned off his cell phone, he crowed his seatbelts and looked into a tiny window of the plane, watching the earth's belt decision faster and rapidly stays down, after the plane moved off the plane plate.

Over the years, he became accustomed to flying, but always deep down, carefully hidden even from himself, was a rational fear of the dangers of specified a journey. He knew the statistics, but felt uncomfortable for a squad of circumstances independent of him to warrant a safe flight and a happy landing. It was hard for him to realize why the Polish government, 20 years after regaining independence, inactive uses russian aircraft. If he had flown privately, he would never have chosen specified a carrier. This time, however, he felt safe; government plane crashes most likely never happen, at least not in the free world.

Tupolev rose to the flight ceiling, allowed to unhook the seat belts, appeared stewardesses, offering a treat. This minute of flight he liked best. He looked out the window, at the seldom scattered above the fields of clouds below the wings of the aircraft and the rising sun. He was always fascinated by the undetected heroism of specified peregrination. He felt like a sailor thrown upon the waves of the component and given to his own courage and grace of Providence. He never doubted that in this confrontation the forces of nature always prevailed, inclined graciously to yield to the skill and courage of the bold. During the flight, he wondered if he should get up and approach the people he respected so much, utilizing the chance to make friends. However, he concluded that a better chance would arise after landing, during and after the celebrations. So he resisted in the chair and closed his eyes.

The flight was to last just over an hour; he knew that specified short flights actually seemed even shorter. The plane climbs the flight ceiling and then descends to land. This time, too. There was a signal indicating seat belts were fastened, engine rotation decreased and the aircraft began to descend. This minute of approach to the airport, the simplification of velocity and turbulence, frequent erstwhile passing through layers of air and clouds have always aroused his anxiety. He admired the precision essential to securely direct the plane to the airport plate. He was not convinced by modern, method possibilities of perfect guidance. He believed that yet the most crucial was the pilot, his skills and the assurance of his hands on the rudders. He was looking out the window. The sky was cloudless, the sun was shining, and the ship calmly sank down, rolling a bow at an approach to the landing path. All the time he heard a bang mounted in the tail of an engine aircraft. They worked at low speeds, sometimes they only increased their power to keep the mechanical bird on course properly. He seemed to hear the chassis open through loud work. They were descending and abruptly the plane plunged into a rapidly thick cloud. It did not bother him, though rapidly intuition told him that they were flying very low; so low that he expected to see the runway at any minute and feel the wheels hitting the disc. There was silence on board, like everyone was holding their breath. Then there was an explosion. One, then another. The detonation stunned him and blinded him. Embedded in the chair he felt that he had fallen into a nightmare dream, but before waking up he felt a hot wave, a sharp air whistling, and a violent jerk. erstwhile he woke up, he heard silent groans and voices. He thought he was alive and he wasn't the only survivor. He didn't see much, he didn't feel any pain, but he wasn't certain what his injuries were. He was shocked. The first thing he felt was the odor of wetlands mixed with a stranger's odor of burning. He besides felt the space and characteristic reverberation of silence between the trees, which he knew from his childhood morning expeditions into the forest. He heard voices and an impending circular of dense shoes. aid was coming. He was amazed to see her so quickly.

Aleksander Rybczyński