University Daily Kansan / Tuesday, December 1, 1987
5
Tuesday Forum
Amnesty lights a flame of hope
By JAROSLAW PIEKALKIEWICZ
On that November day in 1944 my thoughts were bleak. I was locked in a solitary cell in a German military prison - I felt terribly lonely. By myself, I faced what seemed to be the whole of the Third Reich.
Only a few days earlier I had escaped from a train taking me and other Polish prisoners of war somewhere deep into Germany. The escape itself was relatively easy. One of the prisoners, a professional criminal, gave me a file that cut smoothly through the bars in the train's window. Soon I was out on the bumper between two cars. And to save me jumping — and probably killing myself — the train obliged by stopping at a signal. I slid under the car and waited for the train to roll over me. I was free. But only for a few days. This was my first escape, and I was terribly green. I was recaptured. Was my goose cooked?
I was a prisoner of war, but of a special kind. I had fought the Germans as a member of the Resistance in occupied Poland since 1941. The Nazis called me a bandit and a terrorist. Only eventually, when the Polish Home Army (AK) staged the uprising in Warsaw in August 1944 and fought the cream of the German army for two bloody months, and on the insistence of the Western allies, were we given the status of combatants. After the capitulation, we were made prisoners of war rather than executed, although those initially taken were shot.
What would happen now, when I was alone in their absolute power? What would stop them from shooting me out of hand? I had seen the Nazis murder people for much less or for no reason at all. In Poland, hiding a Jew was a crime punishable by death of the whole family. But so was almost anything. And I had fought them with arms.
Sure, in the first camp I was given a Swiss Red Cross registration card, and that was a tremendous boost to my spirit. Even if I was killed, there would be a record that the German army was responsible. Of course I was not so naive as to believe that the little piece of paper would protect me. But at least from now on I was a statistic and maybe, just maybe,
after the war somebody would have to answer for my number. Was that the only hope I had?
I was visited by an SS officer who told me that I would have a military trial and that he was ordered to defend me. He seemed eager enough to do the best job and told me not to admit to stealing food during my few days of freedom, because I would be sentenced for that in addition to the penalty for my escape. However, he was the of SS. His black uniform with a skull and bones insignia spoke for itself. I froze when he walked into my cell.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of keys grinding in the locks, cell doors opening and the normal bustle on the corridor for the daily exercise outside. For a person locked all day in a small, stuffy
room, that half an hour routine was, like meals, a great event. One waited for the morning's hot, dark water called coffee, for lunch's thin soup, for the walk outside, for a slice of bread for supper and for lights-out and dream-free dreams.
There were about 20 of us. All, but me, we were German. We were not allowed to talk. We marched around in a circle and were ordered to keep a distance from one another. Starving for human company, a human voice (Aristotle was right, man is a social animal), we tried to walk a little faster to get closer to the man in front, or we would slow down to let the guy behind catch up. That way you could exchange a few words. The weather was nasty, snowing nearly every day. The guards were not too eager to leave the doorway where
they hid from the elements.
All but one. As soon as any one of us would get a little out of keeping the distance, one guard would yell his head off, charge out and give the offender a good poke with his rifle flut. All of us hated his guts. He was young, and we wished him on the Eastern Front.
Today he was worse than ever, Suddenly, he ran toward me shouting his normal abuse. What now? I was miles away from anybody. I got his rifle in my ribs anyway. At the same time, in a flash, he thrust a small package into my hands and whispered in Polish, "Here is some food." Then he ran off, yelling at some poor fellow. When I got back to my cell, I opened the package and found bread and sausage. I sat down on the cot and cried. For some reason, unexplainable, I knew I was going to make it.
Now, whenever I speak on behalf of Annesty International, I think of that scene. I am sure that was the reason why it was natural for me to join with others in organizing a chapter at the University of Kansas.
Amnesty is truly an international organization, with more than a half-million members in 150 countries. It does not take an ideological stand but works for the release of prisoners of conscience, those who are imprisoned for their beliefs or because they are somehow different from the rest of the community, such as by race, religion, tribe or nationality, providing that they did not commit acts of physical violence.
How desperately needed Amnesty International was during the persecution and murder of Jews and Gypsies in German occupied Europe. But Amnesty International was formed only after World War II ended.
Amnesty asks that all prisoners have a fair and speedy trial and be treated humanely. We oppose the death penalty simply because in most countries it is used indiscriminately and because it is a cruel punishment without a chance for redemption.
Armesty is divided into chapters, such as the one at KU, which are assigned their own cases or prisoners in some foreign country (never their own), usually one from the so-called left and one from the so-called right.
THE FAR SIDE
By GARY LARSON
Saloon scenes on other planets
The chapter does what it can to have the prisoner released or, at least, to make his or her incarceration a little more bearable. We write letters to public officials, try to generate pressure from the United States, write cards to prisoners themselves, keep in touch with their families and offer modest financial help if needed.
Although Amnesty does not take credit for the release of prisoners, we here at KU can look at the resolution of previous cases with satisfaction. All of them are today free. Perhaps we did contribute a little — perhaps a lot. We still never know. But we tried, and that is important.
Some years ago a Yugoslav prisoner of conscience, speaking after his release to an Amnesty International convention in Chicago, related this story: "I was jailed in a terrible underground cell with water dripping from the walls. Then, one day, I was moved into a bright, dry
room above ground. Only later did I learn that the prison warden got a letter about me from a group somewhere in the U.S. and did not want to have my illness or death on his record."
So Amnesty's methods do work. They are like drops of water constantly dripping down and eventually drilling a hole. A stream of letters from two or three groups in a few countries — chapters share the same prisoners — gradually create the effect. But, most important, is that someone cares and is willing to spend a few hours a week, a month, for the rights of others.
Man is a thinking and speaking being, and those who deprive him of the right to think and to speak take his humanity away.
Jaroslav Piekalkiewicz is a professor of political science and of Soviet and East European studies at the University of Kansas.
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