Łopuchowo Forest

In an old Jewish town, eerily void of Jews, I learnt that on August 25th, 1941, the Jews of Tykocin were rounded up and told they were being transported to a ghetto. Sat back on the coach I listened to the educator’s briefing. I knew exactly where we were going. The words became background noise as we drove on. My eyes began to glaze over as the dense forest, just beyond the road, presented itself. The coach gently stopped. We were told to silently exit and walk into Łopuchowo forest. 

A path cuts through a sea of neatly lined pine trees. Birds were singing gently and I noticed a large pile of trees, bureaucratically assembled on top of each other by loggers. I entered the clearing and the group pulled in close to hear the educator. 

On August 25th 1941, there was no birdsong. Instead, the deafening sound of machine guns and screaming. The sky was dark and rain fell. Every ten minutes, groups were brought to be shot into pre-dug pits. Three pits; twelve metres long, four metres wide and five metres deep. There were all together, 1,700 victims.

Fig.1 Łopuchowo Forest, 25/04/2022

As I stood, so small compared to the trees, the forest was quiet and still. But thoughts sped round my mind, and made my head spin; 

    Almost no one survived this.

    What kind of a burial is that?

    They are mourned by us.         By me.

    That I can promise…

    Must not break the quiet stillness.

    I found myself focusing less on the trees themselves, 

    and instead on the gaps in between. 

    I believe the trees are witnesses.

    They were here then.

    I see what they saw.

    Along the front of the fenced-off pits, scattered tulips begin to wilt. 

    I know these deaths have been mourned, 

    But have these lives? 

I walked the parameter of each pit and found my face soaked with tears. One step, one more and I begin to walk out of the forest. An intense feeling of confusion. A slow exit, but an exit nonetheless. A chill spreads itself across my shoulders when my eye catches the pile of logs again.

    Did they know, who else lies just beyond

    When they made this?

    Do they know, that bodies also lie on top of each other, 

    Under the ground?

I continue on, but before I leave the forest path, shame, unannounced, taps me on the shoulder. I should ask from whence it came, but even shame itself does not know. Sat back on the coach, I take off my shoes. I cannot wear them. They have walked on unholy ground. 

Fig.2 Commemorative Plaque, 25/04/2022