Untold WWII Stories: A Boy’s Wartime Journey from Poland to Manchuria & Back

img_20250122_0009.jpg, default, 'The Haruna-Maru ship, on which my father sailed to Japan in 1940'. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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What is a life, after all, if not a series of stories? We are the stories we tell. And often, those stories await a willing listener, which, by chance, I became. A conversation with my neighbour unfolded into something unexpected – a story as rich as it was improbable.

When was the last time you spoke with your neighbours? We can’t imagine the stories hidden, locked behind their doors. Jerzy Sikora’s childhood was a whirlwind of war and exile. His father, a spy, vanished; his mother died, leaving him alone in Manchuria with his young sister. Arrest, hunger and betrayal shadowed his early years until an American soldier plucked him from chaos, setting him on a path back to Poland. But survival was just the beginning – reunion, loss and resilience would define the rest.

There are more stories like this – hidden and waiting to be told. I am grateful to share at least this one. Through an interview and the pages of a short autobiography penned by Jerzy Sikora, we have pieced together the extraordinary events that shaped his life. Now, without interruption, I graciously give space to Mr Sikora to share a story – his own.

Jerzy Sikora: My earliest memory is a vivid, almost photographic image of a sea of snow, deep and endless, in Anin, an outlying district of Warsaw. The snowdrifts rose all the way to my shoulders. It must have been the winter of 1939 or 1940, a time of uncertainty, yet in my mind, all that remains is the overwhelming whiteness, the quiet weight of winter. Then, fragments – climbing up railings, always in places where I wasn’t supposed to be, where danger lurked just out of sight. The thrill of breaking rules, of grasping onto metal bars that led higher, always higher.

And then, a memory unlike any other – a ship cutting through the waves, bound for Japan. I can still feel the chill of the water as I plunged into the ship’s pool, the vast ocean stretching beyond the railings, swallowing the sky.

Next, I remember a Japanese house, delicate and unfamiliar. Someone spoke – calm, matter of fact – there had just been an earthquake. I had felt nothing. The earth itself had shifted beneath me, yet I was too young, too lost in my own world, to even notice. I later learned from the stories told by my aunt how our journey began.

Escape across borders

The story might have begun in 1936, when I was born, but let’s start with 1939, when my parents and I fled east after the war erupted. My mother (1909–1946) and my father (1907–1957) traveled as far as Busk, a town 40 kilometres east of Lviv. It was there that I was baptized, most likely in the Roman Catholic Church of Our Lady of the Rosary and St. Stanislaus. But our time together was short. On 15 September 1939, we were forced to separate from my father. The Polish military gave the order – it must have been in response to the Soviet invasion of Poland from the east. My mother and I suddenly found ourselves trapped in Soviet-occupied territory. Under the cover of darkness, we made a daring crossing of the Bug River, fleeing westward. After a long and arduous journey, we reached Siedlce, where fate intervened. By sheer chance, we encountered my uncle; with him, we made our way back to Warsaw.

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'We are sailing on the Hakozaki-Maru to Japan in the spring of 1940. My mother (in profile) is in the upper right corner, and I am sitting on the lap of a stranger in the second row'. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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Then, in early 1940, a Japanese man appeared at our door. Perhaps he was connected to the Japanese Embassy – I will never know for sure. But he carried something that would change everything: a letter from my father. In it, he begged my mother to apply for an official passport from the German occupation authorities to seek permission to leave for Japan. Somehow, money was arranged – perhaps through the Japanese messenger – enough to fund our journey. And so, in the spring of that year, we left Nazi-occupied Poland. Our escape was surreal – Berlin, Rome, Naples. We traveled by train, crossing hostile territory, until finally, we boarded a ship – the Hakozaki Maru. The journey carried us through the Suez Canal, across the Indian Ocean, at last reaching Japan, where we reunited with my father.

Our time in Japan was brief. Before long, we set sail once again, this time bound for Manchuria, eventually arriving in Changchun (then known as Hsinking). We settled in a small, single-story house with a garden, in a neighbourhood inhabited primarily by Japanese families in the northern part of the city. I spent my days playing with the local children – Japanese boys and girls from the neighbourhood. I picked up enough of their language to communicate with them easily. Childhood, even in the shadow of war, had its moments of normalcy.

These were the years just before my sister, Anna Elżbieta, was born – 1940 to 1941. I still remember the violent dust storms that swept across the land every spring. The air would become thick with swirling loess dust, and everyone wore masks to protect themselves from the choking clouds of grit. Then came the bitter, relentless winters – long, cold and unforgiving. One winter, my father bought me ice skates and built me a small skating rink. My mother, ever caring, sewed a small cushion into the seat of my trousers so that my inevitable falls would hurt less. One day, I found a discarded metal chair frame. Gripping the backrest tightly, I used it to steady myself on the ice. It wasn’t long before I mastered the art of keeping my balance.

Even now, I can vividly picture my father preparing the edges of the makeshift rink, carefully marking the height of the snowbanks that would form its borders. He used a rubber tube filled with water. As the water settled to an even level at both ends, it determined the height of the surrounding embankment. I marvelled at his ingenuity.

Before war broke out between Germany and the Soviet Union, my mother continued to correspond with relatives in occupied Poland. Despite the distance, she remained connected to those we had left behind. Because of my father’s work, he used the surname Milicer instead of his real name.

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'Shortly after meeting with father in Japan. Unknown person first from the left'. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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Before Anna’s birth – adventures & childhood wonders

Before my sister Anna was born, we took a train trip for a holiday. The ride would have been uneventful if not for one mesmerizing illusion – the distant trees and hills ‘moving’ along with the train. Of course, it was just an effect of speed and perspective, but as a child, I found it fascinating. For hours, I watched the shifting landscape, completely absorbed, turning what might have been a dull journey into an adventure. We arrived at a breathtaking place in China, though I never had the chance to ask my father what the town was called.

I still remember the grand hotel we stayed in. Its lobby had multiple levels, with perfectly symmetrical staircases leading upward. There were small wooden shelves along the walls of those stairs, each holding a stuffed rooster with an impossibly long tail – nearly three meters long – flowing down the wall like a ribbon of feathers. That sight sparked my curiosity about birds, and I learned that one could find the strange bird in the marshlands – a common snipe. Nearby, there was a small river fed by hot springs where people could bath in its warm, gentle currents. The air was thick with steam, and it was clear we were in a region of volcanic activity.

Another summer, we travelled to the coast – to the city of Dalian on the shores of the Yellow Sea, not far from the Korean border, 800 kilometres from Changchun. One moment from that trip has stayed with me. We were dining in a hotel restaurant when I found something shocking – a hook embedded in my fried fish. I was stunned. This meant, I was told, that the fish had been caught with a fishing rod just moments before our meal. To my young mind, this was astonishing proof of absolute freshness – the idea that the fish had been cooked so quickly that the kitchen staff hadn’t even had time to remove the hook. It was only later that I realized this was a carefully staged performance, a trick meant to impress guests. But at the time, I was completely convinced. This was our second vacation away from Changchun, and every experience felt like a discovery.

The arrival of my sister

On 29 January 1942, my sister, Anna Elżbieta, was born. At first, I barely registered her presence in my life. It wasn’t until nearly a year later that I truly ‘noticed’ her – when she sat down on our cat, and the cat did nothing. I was stunned. My own relationship with that cat had been nothing but claws and scratches. Whenever I tried to pet it, it defended itself fiercely. And yet, when Anna plopped down on top of it, the cat didn’t protest at all. Life changed again around that time. We moved into a larger, multi-story building, closer to the city centre. My father had an office on the upper floor, a space that was strictly off-limits to me. And yet, of course, that only made it more tempting. I snuck in a few times. Inside, I found kind, polite Japanese adults, but nothing particularly exciting. No grand mysteries, no hidden treasures – just stacks of paper and colourful pencils.

Childhood games

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Jerzy surrounded by small Japanese children from the neighborhood, in Manchuria in the city of Hsingking (Changchun) 1941. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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I spent many hours playing with the local Japanese children, and two games in particular stand out in my memory. The first was a variation of tag but with an interesting twist. In an open space, we would place an empty metal can – usually from a discarded tin of preserved food – right in the centre. Then, we chose the first seeker using the familiar game of rock-paper-scissors (though in Japanese style, the rock was called a fist: a clenched fist beat scissors, scissors cut paper, and paper covered the fist). Whoever lost became ‘it’. The rest of us would scatter, hiding behind fences, buildings or any other good spot. The seeker’s job was to find us. The moment they spotted someone, they would shout out their name and location, then sprint toward the can, trying to place their foot on it before the discovered player could reach it.

But here was the exciting part: if the hidden player was fast enough to get to the can first, they would kick it as hard as they could, sending it flying. The seeker would then have to retrieve the can and put it back in its original spot before continuing the search, giving the others more time to change hiding places or even escape entirely. This led to a lot of strategy and mischief of course – those in hiding would wait for the seeker to stray too far from the can and then race forward to kick it away before being spotted. If they succeeded, the game continued. But if they failed, they became the next seeker.

The second game was much simpler but just as competitive. We called it ‘Matsu Shell Wars’. The game was played on a flat surface, using empty clam shells, which we found scattered throughout the area. Each player would place their shell convex side up, facing their opponent’s shell, just a few feet away. Then, one by one, we would flick our shells forward with our fingers, trying to push them toward each other. The goal? To get your shell to land on top of your opponent’s shell. Whoever managed to do this won the round and claimed the losing shell as their prize. But there was one problem – what if you lost too many times? You’d run out of shells to play with. And there was only one way to get more: the trash bins behind local restaurants. Yes, they stank beyond belief, filled with the leftovers of discarded seafood, but if you wanted to keep playing, you had no choice. Losing was frustrating, but digging through the garbage for more shells was the ultimate humiliation. Still, the love of the game outweighed the stench, and we all did it at some point. Because in the end, winning meant everything.

Glimpses of a changing world (1944–1945)

One day, I found myself witnessing a remarkable event: the last emperor of China, Puyi, being driven through the city. A convoy of cars made its way through the streets, and what struck me most was not the sight of the emperor himself but the fear that surrounded him. Fifty metres from the road, policemen blocked all movement. No one was allowed to approach. Worse still, we were ordered to turn our backs to the procession. No one was to look directly at him. One man hesitated – perhaps he didn’t obey quickly enough. A policeman slapped him across the face. I managed to sneak a glance. And what did I see? Just a few cars. That was all. And yet, the air was thick with tension, as if a single wrong move could change everything.

On one occasion, my father entrusted me to one of his Japanese colleagues, who took me to a fairground. But this was a mistake. There was a shooting range, and for the first time in my life, I held an air rifle. The thrill of pulling the trigger, hitting the targets – I was completely captivated. And then, I demanded that my guardian buy me an air rifle on the spot. When he refused, I threw a terrible tantrum, the likes of which I never repeated again. I simply could not accept or understand that something I wanted so badly could be denied to me.

Going to the cinema was a much safer choice. Two scenes from the movies stuck with me. One was of boys training to become warriors – they stripped to the waist and rolled in the snow to harden themselves. Later, they became brave gunners stationed at the front of a giant warplane. Time passed, and around 1944, we moved again – this time to a multi-story building in the southern part of the city. Our new home was on the upper floor, with three rooms, a kitchen, and a traditional Japanese bathroom – a wooden square bathtub heated by a small stove beneath it. Our house was in a completely Chinese district. The only person I could speak Japanese with was the boy next door – the son of a Russian-Japanese couple.

Magic tricks & a stubborn resistance to reading

It must have been 1944 or 1945 when my father took me outside one evening and showed me the stars. I had seen them before, of course, but that was the night I truly noticed them. The vastness of the sky, the depth of the universe above us. He loved to amaze me with his ‘magic tricks’. He would take a bite from an apple, spit out the seeds, and somehow, a moment later, the apple would be perfectly whole again. Or he would slice it into quarters – yet the skin would remain completely intact. He also taught me chess. But he never let me win.

I lost every game. I protested. I argued. But he remained firm. ‘I play better than you do,’ he’d say. ‘There’s no reason for me to lose. When you get better, you’ll win.’ I was frustrated – but I kept playing.

My attempts at learning the alphabet and forming words met with fierce resistance – from me. I refused to cooperate. No matter how much effort was put into teaching me, I pushed back. Even when I had mastered reading individual words such as dom (house) and -ek (a common suffix), I stubbornly insisted that I could not possibly recognize the word domek (little house) when the two were combined. Eventually, after much frustration – and likely a few tears – the effort was abandoned. The battle was lost. Yet, ironically, I had no trouble at all communicating with Chinese children in the local dialect. Language, it seemed, came naturally to me – just not the one they wanted me to learn.

A school behind high walls & the day everything changed – again (1945)

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'A postcard from occupied Warsaw sent by Jadwiga Micińska (my aunt) to my mother, referred to by close ones as Haneczka, and using the maiden name Milicer in Manchuria'. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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Not far from where we lived stood a Franciscan convent complex, surrounded by a high, solid wall. It wasn’t just a convent – inside, there was a chapel, a shelter for the poor, a small hospital, a school with a boarding house for girls and even a farm with cows and pigs. In the fall of 1945, I was admitted to the school as an exception – the only boy in an all-girl class.

Once again, I was faced with the challenge of forming letters into words – but this time, in English. I still resisted it, just as I had with Polish. Far more interesting were the mandolin lessons and drawing classes, especially because the drawing teacher was not a nun. She was a young woman, different from the others. I still remember how patient and kind she was, guiding my hand as I struggled to draw a pear. She showed me how to use three colours – yellow, red, and green – to make it look real. Her name was Larysa Ogienko. At the time, I knew little about her. Only later did I learn that she was the daughter of a White Army officer who had fled Russia during the October Revolution. I didn’t know it yet, but she would play a crucial role in my survival in China after I lost my parents.

The end of World War II was not a sudden event for me – it was a slow fading of the world I had known. The Japanese gradually disappeared from our surroundings. My father stopped going to work. I remember him sitting at home, carving wooden clogs. Was he trying to earn money? I’m not sure. Despite the massive changes happening around us, I didn’t sense hostility from the local Chinese. Life seemed to go on. And then, one day, everything changed.

The arrest

It was the fall of 1945. I was playing outside in a courtyard with my friends, completely unaware of what was about to happen. Suddenly, my mother came running. There were tears in her eyes as she hugged me tightly. ‘Your father’s been arrested.’ I didn’t understand. He was often away from home – wasn’t this just another one of those times? The drama of the moment blurred even more the next day, when my father returned – escorted by two Soviet officers in uniform. They weren’t aggressive. They didn’t shout. They were calm, formal. They told me they had brought my father so I could say goodbye. I still didn’t grasp what that meant. At that age, I admired soldiers. Their uniforms, their posture – they seemed powerful, fascinating. I didn’t realize then that I could be seeing my father for the last time.

The last days with my mother (winter 1945 – spring 1946)

For a time, my mother traveled regularly to bring my father food and warm socks. But then we left our home and moved into the nearby Franciscan convent. By then, the school I had attended had already closed, and many of its rooms stood empty. One of those rooms became our home – just me, my sister Anna, and my mother, who was heavily pregnant. It must have been December 1945. The convent was a large, modern three-wing building, shaped like a massive letter ‘E’. Most of the lighting had been removed – probably to save electricity. The long, dim corridors felt endless. My restless little sister, full of energy, ran through the open spaces, her wild games ending in yet another injury to her forehead, reopening an old scar she had first gotten from a radiator in our previous home.

For some reason, I often had to walk through the dark hallways alone – and every time, I felt that skeletons were chasing me. And then – the memories stop. My mind goes blank. The last thing I remember is seeing my mother in bed. After that – nothing.

Sometime later – I don’t know how long – I woke up in a hospital bed. Next to me, in another bed, was Anna. And nearby, an infant. A tiny baby. I watched as an unknown person fed the newborn with a cloth pacifier, soaked in some kind of liquid. I asked about my mother. ‘She’s being treated in another city’, they told me. And I believed it. Children believe what they need to believe – what makes their world feel less terrifying. But in reality, my mother had died on 1 February 1946, shortly after giving birth. And my younger brother, Mieczysław, survived only two days. I wouldn’t learn this truth until much later.

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'With my mother in 1940'. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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Starving in the hospital

By then, it was warm outside – probably March or April 1946. Anna and I had regained consciousness in the hospital. But we were weak, frail and starving. I couldn’t even stand. The first time I tried to get up, I collapsed. My legs wouldn’t hold me. I could only crawl.

We were given very little food – they said that after typhoid fever, the body couldn’t handle large meals. But hunger doesn’t care about medical explanations. It consumes you. It burns inside you. It’s a feeling you never forget for the rest of your life. And then – something unexpected happened. One day, a visitor arrived at the hospital – Larysa Ogienko, my former drawing teacher. She was around 30 years old, with golden hair. She wasn’t just a friendly face – she had brought food. And more than that – she fed us. I asked about my mother, but she didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Because what she did next saved our lives. After we were discharged from the hospital, she took us both into her home.

Larysa lived with her mother, whom I would soon call Babuszka [grandmother in Russian, AD]. She was without a doubt the most caring, loving person – and in the near future, she would become our only protector.

A new chapter begins

And so, a new chapter in my life began. I continued to convince myself that my mother was still alive, that she was merely being treated in another city. But the local Chinese children told me otherwise: ‘Your mother is dead’, they said.

I refused to believe them. But slowly, the truth crept in. I still clung to hope, still told myself that she would come back for me – but that hope grew weaker every day. Then, one day, someone took me to the local cemetery. There, they pointed to a coffin, placed above ground and only partially covered with dirt – in the Chinese burial custom: ‘Your mother is buried here’.

I stared at it. But the coffin meant nothing to me. I couldn’t connect the idea of my mother’s death to what I was seeing. In my mind, she was still alive, still somewhere out there. I just couldn’t reach her. That was all. I couldn’t understand – or accept – that I would never see her again.

I was ten years old. Larysa, my guardian, was without a doubt a brave woman – I know this now, looking back. But at the time, I didn’t realize how difficult it was for her. She had taken us in on impulse, driven by the kindness of her heart. But now, she faced the harsh reality of providing for two orphans in a country on the brink of collapse. Her school had closed. She had no steady income. She had to find a way to keep us all alive. She ran a small farm, so we had milk from the cow and, on occasion, meat from a slaughtered pig. But that was never enough. I was put to work. I was responsible for feeding the cow and pigs. Every day, I carried two buckets of whey from a nearby factory – waste product from cheese-making. The factory processed kaoliang – a type of sorghum, ground wet to make a kind of ‘cheese’. Once the curds were removed, the leftover whey still had some nutrients, so it was used as animal feed.

As I waited to collect the whey, I often watched the entire cheese-making process, fascinated by how it all worked. Sometimes, I would join the herdsmen as they took the Franciscan cows to graze. And when I could, I made sure our cow had a chance to graze as well. Meanwhile, my four-year-old sister, Anna, was under the care of Babushka.

Betrayal, escape & the journey to Poland (1947)

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Passport. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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Larysa had become increasingly tense, burdened by worry and hardship. And when she was overwhelmed, she often took it out on me. Then, one day, her money went missing. I had nothing to do with it, but I was accused of stealing. I couldn’t understand why she suspected me. I had no way to prove my innocence. But she pressured me relentlessly, demanding that I confess to something I hadn’t done. I felt completely alone. At the same time, I was being prepared for my first confession and Holy Communion. Desperate, I told the priest about my situation during confession, hoping for guidance. In my childlike naivety, I followed his advice – I admitted to the theft, even though I had not committed it. But what I didn’t expect was that my confession would reach Larysa. After that, the situation became unbearable. I was no longer just blamed – I was punished. Beaten. Kicked.

I began hiding in the barn, curling up against the warm body of the cow. There, I would cry myself to sleep, finding comfort in its steady warmth and rhythmic breathing. That feeling – the deep loneliness, the helplessness, the need for warmth and safety – is something you never forget.

A way out – the arrival of Henry

Then, one day, an American soldier arrived at Larysa’s home. His name was Henry, and he asked me a single question: ‘Would you like to go to Poland?’

The answer was obvious. I would go anywhere – as long as it meant escaping. At that time, a few Americans had arrived in Changchun. The city had briefly been retaken by Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist army, pushing back Mao Zedong’s forces. Henry and others like him were working with UNRRA (the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration) and the International Red Cross, searching for people who wanted to be repatriated from China. Everything happened quickly. Mao’s troops were preparing to encircle the city again, and it was only a matter of time before they stormed back in. Among the few belongings I managed to take with me was my father’s collection of postage stamps, acquired during his time in Manchuria.

In May 1947, we boarded a DC-10 aircraft with Major Henry, departing from Nanking (Nanjing). We spent a few days there, though I learned only later that it was in Nanking that the Polish consul had issued us passports. I still have mine to this day. It was also there, on a beach by the Chinese sea, that I tasted something extraordinary for the first time – an ice-cold Coca-Cola. The next flight took us to Shanghai, and I quickly discovered that early aircraft had a terrifying flaw – whenever they hit thinner air, they would suddenly drop, plummeting before stabilizing again.

The feeling was horrible, but after a few days of travel, we grew attached to Henry. And then – another unexpected separation. In Shanghai, Henry was not allowed to continue with us. Instead, we were placed in the care of another American – Erling Logan. At first, I felt uneasy, even afraid. Henry had been our guardian, our protector – who was this stranger? But the fear didn’t last long. Erling Logan wasn’t just kind and protective – in some ways, he reminded me of my father. Even his age was similar.

We stayed with Erling in a luxurious hotel, a stark contrast to everything I had known. It was blisteringly hot, and to our surprise, taking a hot bath turned out to be the best way to cool down. For the first time in a long while, I felt safe.

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'From the UNRRA press in Shanghai: Ania and I with Erling Logan. In the caption to the photograph, the Japanese were blamed for our father's death, which was an obvious falsification. Political correctness'. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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The long voyage to Europe (summer 1947)

In June 1947, we boarded the SS Marine Lynx – our final passage out of China. Our cabin housed four people: me, Anna, a German woman, and her young child. Meanwhile, Erling Logan was in charge of the entire transport of about 700 emigrants to Europe. We saw him only occasionally, as he was busy overseeing the journey. The voyage from Shanghai to Naples, Italy, lasted nearly two months, but despite its length, it was anything but boring. The sailors created a small pool for the children, stretching canvas to form a makeshift basin where we could splash and cool off.

Somewhere over the Indian Ocean, we encountered a storm that raged for days. Towering waves crashed over the ship, making it seem as though the next one might finally pull us under. Even on a clear, cloudless day, stepping onto the upper deck meant being instantly drenched by the spray of the endless sea. But the ocean also had its wonders – flying fish that darted above the waves and dolphins that danced alongside the ship.

Our journey was punctuated by several port stops, each leaving a lasting impression on me. I remember the bustling port of Colombo in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), the Suez Canal and our stop in Port Said, Egypt. At one of these ports, merchants swarmed the ship, selling all sorts of trinkets. Erling bought me a dagger – its handle shaped like an almost-naked woman. I had no idea what made it so fascinating, but years later, it would become an object of deep envy among my friends.

Arriving in Naples – a haunting resemblance

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'The ship SS Marine Lynx, on which we are sailing from Shanghai, through the Indian Ocean, the Suez Canal, to Naples'. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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Our long voyage finally came to an end in Naples. Passengers slowly disembarked, but Anna and I waited, unsure of what to do next. The German woman and her child had already left, and we sat there, waiting for someone to notice us. We waited a long time. The once-bustling ship grew quiet, nearly empty of passengers. But Erling still hadn’t come for us. Then, a group of young Italian women entered the ship to clean the empty cabins. And suddenly, my breath caught in my throat. One of them – a dark-haired woman with soft curls – looked exactly like my mother. I knew it wasn’t her. But in that moment, a small voice inside me whispered – what if, somehow, against all odds, it was? I couldn’t stop staring. Even now, nearly seventy years later, the memory of that moment brings tears to my eyes.

After what felt like forever, Erling finally arrived. We were loaded onto freight-train wagons, ready for the next leg of our journey. Our destination: Vienna. It was the second half of August 1947, and the next chapter of our uncertain future was about to begin.

The train doors remained open the entire time, allowing us to dangle our legs outside as we slowly rumbled forward, making frequent, unpredictable stops. Most of the time, Anna and I sat on the wagon floor, our feet swinging in the open air. But with five-year-old Anna, we had to be extra careful – one wrong move, and she could fall out. The train often stopped for days at a time, but never at actual stations. The tracks had been destroyed – blown up. Every time the engineers reached a damaged section, we had to wait until it was repaired before moving forward again. During one of these long halts in the mountains, we found ourselves surrounded by towering spruce trees – we must have reached Austria. There, the locals treated us to something simple, yet unforgettable: wild blackberries with cream and sugar. To this day, no blackberries have ever tasted as good as they did at that moment.

Loss, comfort & a new journey (Vienna, 1947)

We stayed in a small boarding house with Erling for a few days. Everything felt unreal – the beautiful surroundings, the delicious food, the sense of safety and comfort after so many months of uncertainty. One experience stood out above all others – visiting the catacombs beneath St Stephen’s Cathedral. We were led through the underground tunnels by torchlight, the flickering flames casting shadows on the ancient stone walls. There, real human skeletons lay before us, eerily preserved in the dim glow. I would have been terrified once. But now, after everything I had been through, they didn’t scare me as much anymore. They still filled me with awe. But fear? I had already lived through far worse.

During our stay in Vienna, we visited the Red Cross offices and warehouses. Somewhere between Naples and Vienna, our luggage had been stolen. With autumn approaching, we needed new clothes, and the Red Cross helped us replace some of the essentials. But there was one loss that couldn’t be replaced – my father’s collection of postage stamps from Manchuria. It had been one of the few remaining connections to him, and now, it was gone forever.

Just before we left Vienna, we had an unexpected meeting – Erling’s wife arrived from the United States. She had come not only to reunite with her husband but also to meet Anna and me. But to me, the real highlight of the day wasn’t meeting this stranger – it was the pillow fight we had that morning. It was wild, full of laughter and energy – a moment in which, just for a little while, we could be children again. At that time, I didn’t think much about her relationship with Erling. To us, he was everything. Our protector. Our guardian. We couldn’t imagine being under anyone else’s care. Honestly, I wasn’t even concerned about where we were going next or what the future held. As long as we stayed with Erling, nothing else mattered.

From Vienna, we traveled to Prague, this time on a normal passenger train – a stark contrast to the freight wagons we had ridden before. I don’t remember where we stayed in Prague, only a single, powerful moment. We were walking down the street when I heard a woman greet her friend: ‘Dzień dobry’. It was just a simple phrase – ‘Hello’. But to me, it was overwhelming. I heard Polish being spoken – something that sounded like home – for the first time in over a year and a half. It was like a piece of my childhood suddenly coming back to life. For so long, I had spoken only Russian – even with Anna. Polish had become a forgotten echo. But in that moment, hearing the familiar Polish melody in a stranger’s voice, it all came rushing back.

The final journey – returning to Poland (September 1947)

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The front page of the newspaper 'Wieczór', 11 September 1947. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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The last leg of our journey took us by train to Warsaw, arriving at the Main Railway Station. From there, we rode in a horse-drawn carriage to Hotel Polonia, where we spent our final night together with Erling. The next morning, on 7 September 1947, we traveled to Anin, to the home of my aunt – my father’s sister. Our return to Poland was even mentioned in the newspaper Wieczór (Evening). And then – it was time to say goodbye to Erling. I was not happy about it. Once again, I felt that I was being handed off like an object, given away to someone I barely knew. I only learned many years later that Erling wanted to adopt us. He had no children of his own and had grown deeply attached to Anna and me. But to make it official, he needed my aunt’s permission. And she refused. At the time, I thought I was saying goodbye to Erling forever. There was no reason to believe our paths would ever cross again. And for years, with no word from him, rumours even surfaced that he had died during the Korean War.

After returning to Poland, I found myself in the home of my extended family. We lived in a modest apartment with my aunt and uncle, Irena and Wacław, along with their four children – Hanna (born 1934), Jan (1936), Tadeusz (born 1945) and Marek (born 1946). Also living with us was Aunt Wilunia (my grandmother’s sister) and her daughter. For a child, adaptation is instinctive. The will to survive is powerful, and at a young age, the mind is still flexible. Within a few weeks, I regained my ability to speak Polish, and soon I began making new friends.

Learning to read & write again

A nearby neighbour, Mrs Baczyńska – the mother of the poet Kamil Baczyński – became my first teacher. With remarkable patience, she taught me to read and write in Polish, even though I was already 11 years old. Within a few months, I caught up on the material for both first and second grade, and by early spring of 1948, I began attending third grade in a local school. That summer, I continued my accelerated learning, completing fourth grade coursework under Mrs Baczyńska’s guidance. By September 1948, I was ready for fifth grade. My homeroom teacher, Mrs Felczakowa, was kind and understanding, and overall I had little trouble keeping up with my studies. I completed primary school in Anin and enrolled in a general secondary school.

In 1952, when I was 16 years old, I was summoned to appear before the military conscription board. This was normal for boys of my age at the time. I barely remember what they asked me, but I do recall one question: ‘Do you speak any foreign languages?’ I couldn’t resist boasting about my knowledge of Japanese and Chinese, alongside Russian and English. Of course, the truth was that by then I barely remembered a few words of Japanese and Chinese. It was a complete exaggeration – but the claim made its way into my military records. For years, I tried to erase this detail from my file, but no matter how many times I attempted it, it remained. Thankfully, I was never put in a position in which I had to prove my so-called fluency in these languages.

The call that changed everything

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Cover of Jerzy Sikora's autobiography. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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In early spring of 1954, some family friends in Anin mentioned that they had received a letter from my father. I was stunned.

Why had they not shown us the letter? It seemed impossible that my father could be alive. Then, about a month later, a phone call came from the local post office. I picked up the receiver. And on the other end, I heard my father’s voice. He asked for directions to where we lived, and we arranged to meet at the crossroads near our house.

And just like that, it happened. He walked toward us as we approached from the opposite direction. He was thin, unshaven and wore a quilted jacket and trousers. His entire life’s belongings were packed in a bundle slung over his back. It’s impossible to describe the feeling of that moment. It was so unreal that none of us could fully comprehend it at first. For nearly eight years, my father had no idea whether we were alive. For nearly eight years, we had no idea that he was alive.

A twist of fate

Looking back, it’s incredible how fate had worked in our favour. We had only been able to return to Poland by chance. By another twist of fate, we had not been adopted by Erling Logan. Had Erling been less of a rule-follower, he could have taken us straight to the United States with his wife. My father could have returned to Poland and found nothing – his children gone forever, living with strangers across the ocean.

Instead, against all odds, we were here. And after all those years, he had found us again.

We slowly began adjusting to our new reality. For a time, my father lived with us in the already overcrowded apartment of the Szumowski family. He searched for work and a place to live, though finding employment, thanks to the kindness of old friends, proved much easier than securing housing. In these circumstances, marriage became the only solution. On 13 April 1955, my father married Zofia, who lived in a state-assigned apartment in Siedlce.

By then, Anna and I had already been formally adopted by our aunt and uncle, and our father lacked the means to take full custody of us. As a result, our situation did not change. We remained in Anin, while he began a new chapter of his life.

The struggles of a working man

Between 1954 and 1957, my father worked as a senior engineer for the Electrical Installation Union in Warsaw. But his daily commute was brutal – two trains, over 90 kilometres each way, just to arrive at work by 7:00 AM. The exhaustion took its toll on him. Twice a week, instead of making the long journey back to Siedlce, he would stay overnight with me in my small student apartment in Anin. Since 1956, I had been living alone, studying at the university. My apartment was basic, a simple wooden structure, but for my father, it meant a shorter commute and, most importantly, a chance for us to talk. We spoke about everything that had happened to us. But when it came to his own past, he was silent. ‘Sometimes,’ he told me, ‘not knowing is better than knowing.’

On 3 September 1957, my father died suddenly of a severe heart condition. Looking back now, he was still so young – only 50 years old.

The secret life of my father – Mieczysław Sikora (1907–1957)

I was fortunate to preserve my father’s handwritten biography, written by him in 1954. From this document, I was able to reconstruct key moments of his life.

My father, Mieczysław Sikora, was born on 8 May 1907, in Płoskirów (Proskuriv, now Khmelnytskyi), Ukraine. In 1920, he moved to Warsaw, where he attended school and was raised by his mother, Konstancja (née Grosicka), a seamstress. His father, Mikołaj, had been a municipal official and later the mayor of Płoskirów, but he died in 1921, leaving the family in financial hardship. Despite this, in 1927, my father completed high school in Warsaw and enrolled at the Warsaw University of Technology, supporting himself through various jobs. Between 1930 and 1931, he served in the military as part of the Reserve Officers’ School of Infantry in Zambrów. After completing his military duty, he returned to work.

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'My father sails to Japan, 1940'. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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When World War II broke out in September 1939, my father was mobilized as a reserve second lieutenant. He evacuated eastward with my mother and me, reaching Busk (40 kilometres east of Lviv). It was there that we were separated. On 17 September 1939, the Soviet Union invaded Poland, forcing my father to cross the border into Romania, where he was interned. In December 1939, he was transferred to France, where he joined a military camp for Polish soldiers.

In January 1940, under an agreement between the Polish and Japanese military authorities, my father was sent to Tokyo. Later, he was relocated to Changchun (Hsingking) in Manchuria, where he worked as a technical advisor in the Cipher Bureau of the Kwantung [Royal Japanese] Army. But everything changed in 1945. After Mao Zedong’s forces entered Manchuria, my father was arrested by the Soviet military and deported to the Soviet Union.

A prisoner in Soviet labour camps (1945–1953)

For eight years, my father endured forced labour in Soviet camps, where he worked in energy and electrical installations. He was assigned to the Norilsk Metallurgical Combine, where he first worked as a technical inspector and later as a head of electrical installations. In 1953, by order of the Soviet Council of Ministers [upon Stalin’s death, ed], he was released and repatriated to Poland.

In January 1954, after navigating months of bureaucratic formalities, he returned to Warsaw (Anin), where he was finally reunited with his sister, Irena Szumowska, and – most shockingly – his two children. At that moment, for the first time in nearly a decade, he learned of my mother’s death and everything that had happened to us. Between 1954 and 1957, he worked as a senior engineer at the Electrical Installation Union in Warsaw.

Two perspectives on one life

There are two versions of my father’s life. One is seen through the eyes of a child, who barely remembers his father before the war. The other is seen through the eyes of a young man, finally reunited with a father he had lost for ten years. I knew he was my father, and he knew I was his son, but so much time had passed that we were strangers trying to bridge an impossible gap. There was no gradual evolution, no time to grow together – only the precious few years we had left. He wanted to share his knowledge with me, to give me as much as he could before it was too late. But even as he tried, he often said,

‘I have no right to impose anything on you – I can only offer advice’.

And in that, he was unwaveringly consistent.

Lessons from my father – the weight of knowledge

‘This knowledge will do you no good – it may even harm you’.

These were my father’s words, and I knew better than to demand answers to my haunting questions. He had suffered enough. Only two memories from his years in the Siberian labour camps escaped his lips: Prisoners were woken every two hours at night – not for roll call, not for punishment, but simply to turn over so they wouldn’t freeze to the wooden bunks.

One morning at dawn, a group of prisoners attempted an escape. Their dark silhouettes stood stark against the endless white of the snow. There were no fences, no guards chasing them – only 500 kilometres of lifeless wasteland in every direction. No one in their right mind would have run – they were sentencing themselves to death. The other prisoners watched from the camp, their breath curling in the cold. Then, after two hours, when the escapees were just a speck on the horizon, a plane landed nearby. It was on the ground for only a brief moment before rising back into the sky. No one ever saw those men again.

Choosing my path – a university student

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Acta Protozoologica 1990-2006. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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When the time came for me to choose a field of study, I hesitated between biology and architecture. I had some drawing skills, but I wasn’t confident enough in them to pursue architecture. My father’s advice was simple:

‘Choose the one you’re most likely to finish. What you do afterward – life will decide’.

So I followed his words. And they turned out to be right. My years at university became some of the most fascinating of my life. I devoted my life to studying a tiny organism Paramecium bursaria. A microscopic ciliate, a speck of life invisible to the naked eye. That small creature became my world.

After passing my matura (high school exit exams), I prepared for university entrance exams – not by memorizing textbooks but by reading books on biology and chemistry that fascinated me. I don’t remember their titles, but I can still see one of them in my mind – a light grey cover with white lettering. The day of the entrance exam arrived. The biology written exam was held in the lecture hall of the Faculty of Physics. The questions were straightforward, and I felt confident. But the day the results were posted, my world collapsed.

I arrived early at the university, eager to check the lists. I scanned the names of those accepted – I wasn’t there. I checked the list of those who failed – still not there. I stood in shock. Had my knowledge been so poor that they didn’t even bother listing me? Defeated, I wandered through the city for hours, finally returning home late at night, feeling utterly crushed. Then – the strangest thing happened. My family was celebrating. They congratulated me on passing the exam. I thought it was a cruel joke – or maybe just their desperate attempt to lift my spirits.

That evening, the phone rang. It was Rafał Laszkiewicz, the son of my chemistry teacher, calling with shocking news: ‘I saw your name on the list. You passed’. I barely slept that night. The next morning, I rushed back to the university – and there it was. My name. My acceptance. To this day, I can’t explain why I didn’t see it the first time – was it my emotions? A simple mistake? None of it mattered. I had passed.

A(nother) new beginning

Still skeptical, I went to the dean’s office the next day to confirm. Not only was I officially a student, but I also found out that I had received top marks in all three subjects – three perfect scores of 5. But those grades weren’t what mattered most. What mattered was this: I was now a university student.

An unexpected honour

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Paramecium bursaria. a) View in transmitted light. b) In polarized light. With longer exposure, traces of birefringent crystals carried by the flowing cytoplasm are visible. From the doctoral dissertation, 1965. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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To my surprise, the academic year’s official inauguration took place in the Department of History’s lecture hall. And to my greater shock, when it was time to recite the freshman oath, Professor Zygmunt Kraczkiewicz called on me to represent the entire first-year class. When I retired in 2007, I had to supplement my documents confirming my studies in the years 1955–60. To my pleasant surprise, the University of Warsaw Archives returned my index book. I can reliably recall the subjects that brought me much enjoyment during my studies, as well as those that I enjoyed less. To some extent, this is reflected in my grades.

As I mentioned, my student years were the most interesting period of my life in many respects. As a young man, I had a small apartment in Anin at 10 Rzeźbiarska Street. It was a 25 square metre room with a kitchen, located in the attic of a wooden, pre-war summer house that lacked running water, sewage and consequently a toilet and bathroom. In the room and kitchen, there were coal stoves. The only ‘civilized’ amenities were electric power and a crystal radio with headphones. I became the tenant of this apartment by chance. It was a municipal apartment where my great-aunt (on my mother’s side), Maria, lived – an elderly woman. She lived alone (she was unmarried) and around the turn of 1954 and 1955, she required occasional help.

I married my beautiful wife, whom I met at a train station, in 1960. Krystyna found her path at Polish Radio, working in the Music Tape Archive from 1958. As for me, my journey took a different turn. In 1960, I stepped into the role of assistant at the prestigious Marceli Nencki Institute of Experimental Biology. Just a year later, I embarked on a demanding four-year journey as a doctoral student – a period filled with relentless study, discovery and growth. In 1965, my efforts paid off with the successful defence of my doctorate – a moment of triumph that opened new doors. The following year, in 1966, I seized an incredible opportunity: a one-year contract at the renowned Institute of Animal Genetics in Edinburgh, Scotland. It was a turning point, one that shaped my career and expanded my horizons on the international stage.

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'A newspaper in the United States about our reunion with Erling Longman'. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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But the unexpected also happened – Logan came to Poland and seeing him again filled me with joy beyond words, a reunion long overdue, yet feeling as if no time had passed at all. Years later, I crossed the ocean to visit him in America, retracing the invisible thread that had always connected us, no matter the distance.

Afterword

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Afterword from Jerzy Sikora's autobiography. Photo: courtesy of Jerzy Sikora

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It is the end of 2014. I increasingly realize that my memory is failing me. And I would like to preserve in my memory for as long as possible not only my own recollections of my closest living relatives, but also of those who have passed away. Moreover, I have realized that my memories, which I have been writing down for several years, are incredibly important to me. It is a way of understanding the meaning of my own life.

For several decades, I have been studying the life of a microscopic creature called the Paramecium (Paramecium aurelia). One could say that as an individual, this tiny being lives only a few hours. Its existence is so brief – yet so fascinating – and here I am, having lived for 78 years. Perhaps it was worth dedicating a few lines to myself as well.

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