Eugeniusz Niebelski
I am writing this text about Russians and an Orthodox monument, perhaps at a time that feels far from ideal – with war raging just beyond Poland’s eastern border, and with Polish memorials currently being vandalised in Russia, including in Siberia. One example is the cross marking a grave in Mishikha, near Lake Baikal – a trace of the Polish uprising in the summer of 1866. The base of the cross has been sawn through, and the commemorative plaques – in both Polish and Russian – have been hacked apart. There is little we can do but acknowledge that this is the tragic legacy of Polish–Russian history…
Killed in action near Rybnica on 20 October 1863
On 20 and 21 October 1863, two battles took place in the Sandomierz region against Tsarist forces, involving a large, well-armed and uniformed partisan unit commanded by the renowned leader Dionizy Czachowski, who had remained active on the battlefield in the Świętokrzyskie area since the very outbreak of the January Uprising.
In the early morning of 20 October, Czachowski crossed over from Galicia with a new unit and that same day fought a victorious battle near Rybnica, in the vicinity of Klimontów. But unfortunately, on the following day, in nearby Jurkowice, the unit was completely crushed [Czachowski himself was at the time with the cavalry in Konary]. Graves and both historical and modern memorials remain after these battles to this day – in Rybnica, Jurkowice, Olbierzowice, and Klimontów, as well as in Sulisławice, Staszów, and Kurozwęki. In forest-surrounded Rybnica, a monument has survived that was erected in honour of the fallen Russian soldiers. It was funded by a Russian, Alexander Pietrov (Pietrow), the son-in-law of General Vasily Pogodin, the chief quartermaster of the Russian army in the Kingdom of Poland during the 1831 uprising, who was later rewarded with the Osiek estate in the Sandomierz region.
Near Rybnica, Czachowski commanded an infantry and cavalry unit numbering well over 600 men; it was there that he was unexpectedly attacked by a Russian detachment under Major Chuti from Staszów, consisting of two companies of infantry and a squadron of cavalry. At times, the fighting was hand-to-hand with bayonets and scythes; casualties were heavy on both sides, but ultimately the Russians gave way and withdrew in the direction of nearby Jurkowice. The army reportedly took some of their dead with them, while 13 others were left on the battlefield. The Polish side had 27 killed, who were later buried in the cemetery in Klimontów. The following day, the partisan unit – already without Czachowski, who was temporarily with the cavalry in Konary – was completely destroyed near Jurkowice, at Samotnia, during a several-hour concentrated attack by troops from Staszów, Opatów, and Sandomierz. Many insurgents were killed (there is a grave of 52 fallen in nearby Olbierzowice), about 150 were taken prisoner, and the survivors escaped to Galicia. Czachowski no longer had any reason to move towards Jurkowice; he headed north towards Ostrowiec, then moved on to the Lublin region, where he was killed in early November near Solec on the Vistula.
As many as 13 Russian soldiers killed at Rybnica (today, regional publications and online sources still mention 40 soldiers buried collectively in Rybnica) were buried on the spot, certainly under official supervision and control.* Some time later, Alexander Petrov erected a monument for them. Together with his wife Alexandra (née Pogodin), he inherited the Osiek estates along with the original palace in Wiązownica-Dzięki, featuring Russian architectural elements, which had been previously built by Pogodin. Alexander Petrov was a high-ranking Russian official in Warsaw and a prominent chess player of his time – a chess theorist, author of well-known chess moves still recognised today, and also the writer of chess booklets in Russian.
Blood dripped from the fist clenching the soil
Several decades ago, when I was gathering materials for a study on the mentioned battles, I also became acquainted with Rybnica and its surroundings, got to know the battlefield terrain, as well as the monument with an Orthodox cross and the nearby burial site. From its shape and size, it was clear that this was not a typical mass grave, but that each soldier lay separately. The small cemetery was no longer there, and on that spot, to the right of the monument, a thicket of tall blackthorn had grown. One year, around the mid-1980s, an elderly resident of Rybnica I met in a nearby field told me that, even before the Second World War, she had been taught at school that in that battle between Poles and Russians so many had died that ‘blood dripped from the fist clenching the soil.’ Other older residents of Rybnica spoke of a small cemetery beside the monument. I also heard a story that the monument was once surrounded by four small stone posts, each topped with a metal imperial eagle, all connected by wrought iron rods or chains. The eagles – unsurprisingly – disappeared after the First World War, and it was likely around that time that the monument also suffered additional damage. Later, local field workers would sharpen their scythes, sickles, and knives on those sandstone blocks as they made their way to the fields. (Over time, the posts disappeared – or were simply worn away through use as whetstones.)
A few years have passed since that encounter at the monument. The blackthorn bushes vanished from the small cemetery, and the owners of the adjoining field established a vegetable garden on the site. ‘Sir,’ said the same woman, ‘even cabbage won’t grow here!’ And yet the monument has remained to this day. From time to time, flowers appear at its base, and during All Saints’ Day, candles are lit in remembrance. I was told it is the schoolchildren who keep this quiet tradition alive.
The monument stands beneath a linden tree – once grand in size, perhaps even old enough to have witnessed those tragic events. But a recent storm brought down its wide-spreading branches, and it had to be pruned; the great leafy canopy was lost. When I first became acquainted with the monument, it was already damaged. The upper, smaller section – a block bearing the cross – had come loose from the main slab and rocked unsteadily in all directions. Fearing it might fall, shatter, and take with it the last visible trace of that historic battle, I began – on each visit (we often came here from Klimontów with our children) – to wedge small stones or fragments of branches beneath the cross to steady it. Much later, I discovered that the monument had been ‘restored’ – in 2008 and 2013. At that time, a plaque was added, among other things stating that it stands on a mass grave of those who fell in the battle, which is highly doubtful. Why? This is because Petrov died in 1867, four years after that battle, and had managed to erect the monument before then. Would he have done so on a freshly made earthen mound? The monument would soon have toppled or sunk, and today there would likely be no trace of it. Unfortunately, the new plaque does not clarify who the fallen buried here are. Who, among passers-by unfamiliar with the history of the site and the battle, would guess that it commemorates Russians?
Will the dead finally have their eternal rest?
The monument is made of grey sandstone, composed of two stone blocks joined by a connecting slab, and topped with a wrought iron Orthodox cross. It certainly originally bore the following inscription on its front: В / память / пoгибшихъ / русскихъ воиновь [or бойцовъ – bojcow, meaning soldiers, warriors, fighters or rank-and-file men] / во / 1863 году (W pamiat’ pogibszich russkich woinow wo 1863 godu)** – In memory of the Russian soldiers who fell in 1863. Over time, the inscription became damaged – likely due to natural causes, or possibly human interference. In interwar publications, it was quoted in a slightly altered form: W pamiat’ pawszim woinam w 1863 godu [In memory of the soldiers of 1863], it is now quoted in the same way in the historical literature. Russian woin (воин) means a warrior, soldier, fighter.
In 2008, the monument was restored – certainly unprofessionally. The ‘restorer’ painted it with colourful paint (it is now yellow-green), erased the damaged inscription, and hand-wrote in Russian: В память павшим воинам в 1863 году [In memory of the fallen soldiers in 1863]***. Thus, the word ‘Russian’ (russkikh), meaning Russian soldiers, disappeared entirely. However, when one looks closely at the current inscription****, next to it, beneath the layer of paint, clearly visible letters from the old engraved text begin to emerge – near the words pavshim and voinam (see photograph); next to the first, one can clearly see рус… (rus…), meaning Russian.
Right up to the present day, the Russian monument remained the only witness to that battle. Reborn Poland did not remember to honour the memory of the insurgents, and the Third Republic waited several decades to do so. It was only on the 150th anniversary of the uprising, in 2013, that such a monument was erected – though it was a local initiative. At some distance from the Russian one stands the Polish monument: a wooden cross and a metal eagle with outspread wings atop a stone mound, with a plaque commemorating the Polish victims – the insurgents of Dionizy Czachowski. Will the fallen – Russian and Polish – finally find eternal peace in the Rybnica valley?
The ‘insurrectionary” Russian and his wife Alexandra
I am writing this text about Russians and an Orthodox monument, perhaps at a time that feels far from ideal – with war raging just beyond Poland’s eastern border, and with Polish memorials currently being vandalised in Russia, including in Siberia. One example is the cross marking a grave in Mishikha, near Lake Baikal – a trace of the Polish uprising in the summer of 1866. The base of the cross has been sawn through, and the commemorative plaques – in both Polish and Russian – have been hacked apart. There is little we can do but acknowledge that this is the tragic legacy of Polish–Russian history.
And based on the story of the monument in Rybnica, its founders, and the stewards of the Osiek estate, it should be strongly emphasised that the Petrov family maintained friendly and social relations with Polish circles – including those connected to the uprising – as they resided permanently in Warsaw. Even Romuald Traugutt used to visit the Petrov household. Their children were taught Polish and brought up in Polish culture. Alexandra Petrov allocated all of her father’s income from his estate to Polish social causes. Fluent in Polish, she founded and financed a popular publication for Warsaw’s urban circles, craftsmen, and journeymen – ‘Czytelnia Niedzielna’ (published from 1856 to 1864) – whose chief editor was the well-known Warsaw figure Agaton Giller, a former exile, historian, and conspirator*****. In 1863, the Petrov family temporarily left the country (earlier that year, the elder Pogodin had died in Dzięki), not wanting to witness the Polish tragedy and Tsarist reprisals. Alexander Petrov died in 1867 in Warsaw, in his own home on Chmielna Street; Alexandra passed away in 1883. Both were buried in Warsaw. A few kind words can also be said about General Pogodin, the distinguished quartermaster of the Tsarist army that fought against the November Uprising in the Kingdom of Poland. Being Orthodox himself, when he took over the Osiek estates, he treated his Catholic neighbours with goodwill. When their church in Wiązownica burnt down, he allocated a plot of land and provided financial support for the construction of a new one. He also built a church in Osiek. The one in Wiązownica still stands today, and the locals know whom they have to thank for it. He neither forbade nor hindered his daughter from associating with Poles or following a Polish path. Historians claim: ‘He became rooted in the Polish milieu.’ His grandchildren, living in Poland, had by then become fully Polonised.
As recently as the 1990s, in Dzięki, beside the abandoned Pogodin palace, I was recounting to a Polish Petrov couple – whom I met there by chance (the palace did not yet belong to them) – the history of their grandparents and great-grandparents, which they were only just beginning to uncover. Soon after, I published a piece about the owners of the palace and the chess player Petrov in ‘Tygodnik Nadwiślański’ (1993), and later in the book W dobrach Ossolińskich. Klimontów i okolice (1999). The Petrov family regained the palace in 1997. Today, one can find many texts online relating to the topics mentioned, as well as view photographs of the former A. A. Petrov and read about the lives of the present-day Petrov family.
Alexandra i Alexander Petrov are also commemorated in our national literature, in Zofia Kossak’s novel Dziedzictwo (volume II co-authored with Zygmunt Szatkowski, published in Warsaw in 1996), which tells the story of the years of the January Uprising. Both appear here as ‘Judge Petrov’ and his wife, ‘Pogodin’s daughter,’ who ‘spends more time in Polish company than Russian.’ And yet, we already know that this is not literary fiction – as evidenced, for instance, by the newspaper mentioned earlier, created not for Russian circles but specifically for Polish ones (one of Alexandra’s daughters assisted her in working on the publication). The publication was very popular. Among others, Archbishop Antoni M. Fijałkowski of Warsaw praised and read ‘Czytelnia.’ People spoke of Alexandra, and historians today claim likewise: ‘A Polish woman by conviction and language.’ Her husband was regarded as a Polonophile, and the Russians in Warsaw ironically called him the ‘insurrectionary,’ meaning he was sympathetic to the Polish ‘rebels.’
Out of a need to preserve the good memory of these people and from a moral imperative that cemeteries must not be destroyed, the Orthodox monument in Rybnica should also be protected.
Prof. dr hab. Eugeniusz Niebelski (Lublin)
(Mid-titles from the editorial team.)
Translated by Małgorzata Giełzakowska
Footnotes:
*In the registry card (with four photographs) of the Monument Conservator in Sandomierz, no. 105/A/93 – prepared in October 1992 – it was noted that in Rybnica the monument on the grave of 40 Tsarist soldiers was erected by the ‘Russian garrison’ [where does this information come from, since in the section on historical documentation it states ‘none’? – E.N.]. And ‘the villagers regard this monument as a memorial to the 13 Poles who fell in that battle; they light candles and lay flowers.’ I already knew this monument in the 1980s, spoke with several people from Rybnica, and told them the story of the battle; they could only have heard about the 13 fallen from me. The notion that ‘13 Poles’ are buried there likely arose from a mix-up of details – Poles, Russians, the fallen, and 13 buried.
** See also two old photographs in Jerzy Kowalczyk’s text online: Rybnica – Muzeum Historii Kielc, [http://powstanie1863.zsi.kielce.pl/index.php?id=p22].
*** For more on the memorial and restoration see: P. Sławiński, Losy rosyjskich pomników na terenie powiatu sandomierskiego, in: ‘Świętokrzyskie Studia Archiwalno-Historyczne’ 2021, pp. 46–48 (texts by E. Niebelski on the battle and the monument are not cited by Sławiński).
**** The paint (probably exterior paint) and this inscription should be professionally removed from the monument. Otherwise, the monument will suffer complete degradation! I wonder which conservator authorised such a ‘restoration.’
***** For more on A. Petrov’s social and charitable work, see the excellent, well-documented text by I. Krasińska and P. Sławiński titled Polka z przekonań i języka. Aleksandra z Pogodinów Pietrowa (1815–1883), filantropka, patriotka, wydawczyni i redaktorka, ‘Studia z dziejów Rosji i Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej’, vol. 54., issue 2, pp. 43–64.