Jozef Bobalik

“I was always questioning myself, would I reach the age of thirty, how is my mother doing alone at home, and why me... It was the end of my studies, the end of everything. Day by day, even at work, questions were consuming me. One Sunday morning in April 1950 I was sitting alone on a bench in front of the barracks. Suddenly, I don’t know from where, an older man came to me, he might have spent many years in labour camps. He greeted me and asked: “Do you have anybody at home?“ -- My mother. “Do you want to see her?“At these words I reacted with the feeling that he might be a helper who could help me to see my mother. And with joy I responded that I wanted to see her. Why should I not want to see her, since she is the only person I have? “Youth, forget that you have a mother at home. Think only about one thing, where could you gulp a piece of bread and not whether you will see your mother. Otherwise you will die like a dog.“”

“On June 29 I told my story at the court. The prosecuting attorney asked for the maximum sentence of 10 years and two months of losing civil rights. I didn’t deserve it. I deserved not even a slap on my bottom. But no word was pronounced to my defence. My defence attorney was not even present.”

“I knocked on the window the second time. A man returned and asked me harshly: “Why are you knocking? What do you want?“ I said in my dialect: “Open the door, uncle, it’s me, Jozef.“ It was half past three when I entered the house and everybody started to cry.”

“Everything started when it began to get dark. They called our names from their list. They did not want to forget anybody. We began boarding the wagons; my mother stood about 7 feet away from me. But the guard wouldn’t allow me to hug her. I wasn’t even allowed to take my things from her. The only thing I could do was to say: “Don’t cry, mom, I’ll surely come back.“ That was the last thing I said to my mother. That was the last time I saw my mother alive.”

“After breakfast I went to the cemetery. My mother did not live up to the fulfilment of my promise I had given to her in February 1949: “Don’t cry mom, I will return!“ So I went to the cemetery. I could embrace only the wooden cross and tell her that I had returned.”

“We had meals really like in a labour camp. For breakfast, lunch and dinner - a soup. For lunch there was additionally 200 grams of mash. In labour camps from Tajshet to Bratsk there were terribly many small flies in the summer. Already when they passed the food to the men at the workplace in the open air, or when they poured the soup into a dish, or they threw the mash with a wooden spoon, it was black filled up with small flies. But you had to have found it tasty, had to find it tasty, if you wanted to live.“