Piotr Szubarczyk: Remember the German Pomeranian Crime

A late Known Poet Barbara Lipińska-Set wrote a shocking poem (below), with a dramatic punch line, about these crimes, referring to the figure of Fr Antoni Henryk Szuman, the parish priest of old-garde, murdered in the door of the church in Fordon (he was previously driven out by volksdeutschs from his parish). During these 2 months the Germans murdered about 220 priests of the Chelmian diocese! all day on average three-four! October 16th - 30th, at most! A meaningful date! Mystical! Is that why the Holy Spirit made Habemus papam sound on October 16?!

The main perpetrators of these crimes were bandits from the civilian, paramilitary organization Selbstschutz, utilizing the protective umbrella of the Gestapo and SS. They were the neighbors of the murdered: 'For the slaughter was prepared by the German neighbors, what they said good morning, and sometimes Gr. Gott!'

Piotr Szubarczyk

***

SURVEILLANCE

The trees of the Pomeranian forests, the old, cracked,

Do you inactive have creepy images in your soul?

Shotfight, victim groans and fatal wounds

And the silence... and the needlessly stained with Polish blood

Are you guys talking about this? What's in your noise?

The cry "May Poland live" "Lord Christ the King".

Whoever comes here will tremble and stay silent,

And he feels the breath of the beast, and the innocent pain.

Priest of Pomerania - Polish cities and villages,

For Polishness and for religion is the conviction - in the head a stake!

You walked in the claws of death with a heavenly pathos,

In priestly duty, unbreakable as steel.

An old-garde parish priest banished from the rectory,

Your holiness, your goodness, hated the enemy.

You got a sharp bullet from German bastards,

And your body fell, where the church threshold.

O trees, O witnesses, talk evil!

Thunder, tell, shout, and write.

Someone doesn't care and doesn't know why,

But another hand lifted and made a cross.

Oh, arrogant Europo, you don't want to know.

We lived here together, shared a fence.

Because we were slaughtered by German neighbors,

What they said good morning, and sometimes Grüß Gott.

Litzmannstadt I

Fauststrasse. Litzmannstadt.

The growl has fallen.

She's trampling on Marys barefoot's hair,

Naked skinny leprechaun.

Fauststrasse. Litzmannstadt.

He's turning 8 today.

It's sweet girl's birthday.

A hangman's party.

Fauststrasse. Litzmannstadt.

Who stole the crust of bread?

On an empty belly, at least a crumb.

Back's cutting through the whip.

Fauststrasse. Litzmannstadt.

The angel over the city is pale.

Actions and words. Boat. Industrial.

There was a silent world.

Litzmannstadt II

Sir!

Mother wants to beg to see her son.

I'll bring the shoes, any bison in the bubble.

And a warm scarf. delight be humble.

Because last time, there was a quarantine.

They wouldn't let me in. I was waiting at the gate.

Since dawn. The guards were changing in the morning.

I served an apple and a linen shirt.

Oh, my sweet-haired bastard.

For roofs and fences

As skillful as anyone could.

My nose is covered in freckles

My father was moving for tobacco

And in the kitchen, he helped me with this thing.

Highly esteemed camp authorities,

I saw my boy from a distance for a while.

Chucherko. The bitch tied his head.

What could he have done to keep me out?

Again, delight meet your son.

He'll be good. I'll explain.

It's my baby, and I warrant it.

He's upset due to the fact that he misses and he's weak due to the fact that he's crying.

My Jasiek with his head in the clouds.

Like Wirko and Wigura

He wanted to fly. Aeroplan glued itself.

Little man, he cried out at night,

That dark around.

Monsters will come out of their black pits

Ladies and gentlemen, the governor's camp,

I couldn't get in again... rules... punishment...

I think it was an accident.

He always regrets and apologizes right now.

I'm certain the Chief thinks I'm a stalker.

Please excuse all our crimes.

My boy doesn't really know I remember him.

I ask you kindly again.

My son, silent shadow,

In prayer and memory.

Twelve years. There were no tears.

Poor human small girl,

I was trembling over the cradle,

And you were expected to go through the torture to the end.

Very distinguished... very distinguished...

Dear executioners, noble scum

Dignified villains, cancerists, bandits

Never know a day or an hour!

Wherever your evils and crimes are.

And always - or before or now,

Simmer down and burn fire!

To be in a nightmare, to die in a nightmare!

My son, specified an end,

But we're on God's side.

Where there are saints,

We'll be there forever.

And so much beauty,

You'll have adequate fun.

You'll be playing with the angels.

Barbara Lipińska-Set