100 Years Later

We were standing between two countries, yet not really in no man’s land. On one side were the mountainous Slovak lands, and on the other were the low river-plains of Poland. We had just exited the undergrowth of a Beskid Niski forest onto a paved road, and were now taking a mental breather, looking at the dual existence of the countries signs, before we would reenter the foliage and continue on the other side of the road.  

The Beskid Niski Mountains are a low lying sub-range of the greater Beskid Mountains that stretch from the corner of the Czech Republic, along the Polish-Slovakian border, and into Ukraine. This greater Beskid range then evolves into the much greater Carpathians which inhabit a large chunk of central and eastern Europe. It’s the mountain range where, because of Bram Stoker, bloodcurdling screams could be heard from Dracula’s castle while he bit the necks of his innocent victims. Luckily we weren’t anywhere near Transylvania.

Our hike was taking us through Gorlice county, where, 100 years ago from that day, a great offensive was being produced on the Eastern Front of World War 1. The group that organized this war-themed hike was named Studenckie Koło Przewodników Beskidzkich or SKPB.

As a group of about 25 of us trampled through the unseen path, following our well-trained guides, I looked at the backpack in front of me, and it started to transform into a ragged rucksack being carried by a Hungarian soldier, with clanking metal pots hanging off of it and a bayoneted rifle being held, poking out languidly towards the ground on the left side of the soldier, and our guides morphed into the commanders dragging us to the battlefields through the uncharted thick forests, where we would most likely fall victim to another bayonet and breath our last breath.

100 years ago the Gorlice-Tarnów offensive was taking place exactly in these mountains. This great offensive came after depressing futile attempts by the Austro-Hungarians to push the Russians back towards Ukraine. The commanders of the Austro-Hungarian armies had needlessly thrown many young soldiers into extreme mountain climates during the height of winter with little thought, causing many helpless and painful deaths. But, as winter dissipated, and conditions became easier to deal with, the Germans joined the Austro-Hungarians on the Eastern Front, and on May 2^nd, 1915, began pushing the Russians back through Gorlice county.

On May 2^nd, 2015, our group stopped in front of two mass graves hidden behind some trees. They were quadrilateral stone structures with bulky half-meter orthodox crosses, symbolizing that they were Russian soldiers. There were two stone plaques commemorating them, but it read in German, “Fallen in the field of honor, 150 Russian soldiers.” Lying beneath us were almost 300 Russian skeletons (the other plaque stated 130 Russian soldiers), but above ground the stone structure had been built by the Austro-Hungarians. At every cemetery we stopped at this would be the case. Most of them were mixed with Austrian, Polish, Hungarian, Ukrainian, Slovakian, German, and Russian soldiers, but all them were built by the Austro-Hungarians, and this concept of indiscriminately honoring soldiers during war, regardless of if they were the enemy or not, was beautifully enchanting.

The cemetaries in the region we were hiking had all been designed by a Slovak architect named Dušan Jurkovič. In designing them he took inspiration from the folk art of the surrounding Łemko people, who were the majority of the inhabitants of this area in 1915. Construction of these cemeteries began during the offensive, and most of them finally finished in 1918. The multi-ethnic Austro-Hungarian Empire that produced them no longer existed. For the next three quarters of a century the Łemkos were relocated under communist Poland, so the area became depopulated, and the cemeteries fell into dilapidation. In the late 80s old cemeteries began to be rediscovered in forests that had grown over them, and throughout the 90s restoration projects took place that brought their existences back to reputable and honorable standards. Now they exist as hauntingly contemplative monuments.

We started in Grab, which sat isolated on a soft grassy hillside. There was a wooden structure built in the style of an old Slavic pagan temple. There was something eerie and mystifying about the shape, as though it was a long lost memory of the past. The headstones were wooden crosses, and here there was a mix of Russian and Austro-Hungarian soldiers. Next were the Russian mass graves at Ożenna, and then through the thick beech forests towards the former village of Czarne. This valley had once been populated by Łemko families, and even one gypsy family, but during communist times after the Second World War the population was moved to Soviet Ukraine and North-West Poland, and now there is only small clues that an entire community once lived there. We moved north towards Krzywa, and after a cold night, Kasia and I decided to split from the group, and head to the valley over, where we were in touch with a group from Warsaw that owned an old Łemko cottage in the village of Nowica.

On the road to Nowica, before hitting the Magura Małastowska pass, we were able to spot a little salamander that was famous in this region. It’s black and yellow and named the fire salamander. They are slow moving, and very poor at hiding, and we found one with its head buried in a crack in an old stump every few meters. The path we were on was incredibly scenic and the mist caused by the weather made our way mystical and imaginative. At the pass we reached the last cemetery that we would see on this trip. Between the spruce and silver firs the headstones of Poles, Ukrainians, Hungarians and Austrians protruded from the ground. Here there was even one Jewish headstone, also carved from wood; the only one we saw at any of the cemeteries. We took a moment to think about the consequences of this brutal opening to the 20^th century, and how these cemeteries have changed this landscape forever, and then we moved on towards Nowica. On the paved road we climbed up over the hill and as we were climbing we noticed a dead salamander on the road, squished by a car. A few meters later another one laid crushed with its guts exposed, and then another one and another one. Kasia began to shake, and she grabbed my arm and closed her eyes. As we passed another dead salamander I was reminded of the needless deaths of hundreds of thousands of young men who were not prepared to face the modern environment that was developing quickly before them. 

WW1 Cemetery in Southern Poland