The Wladyslaws of Przasnysz - Short Story

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I wrote this when I was like 18 or 19, I can't remember now. It's actually "story no.2", out of a collection of short-stories I wrote as a teen. It's not a serious work, and I don't intend to publish it. I just wanted to know if it's as crap as adult me thinks it is lmao. Tear it apart!

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The war had not been pleasant – in fact, it had been as unpleasant as a war could be. The Wladyslaws had lived in the small town of Przasnysz for hundreds of years – or so family history said. The Wladyslaws had seen the tides of history lash at their town; the flags of empires hoisted and burnt. They had seen the marching Prussians and the grand army of Napoleon. They had seen battles in the street, the dying and the dead, the shell-fire, and the gun-smoke. Through it all, they had lived in that one white washed, thatch-roofed house where generations upon generations of Wladyslaws had come and gone.

They had seen war before. Rebellion and riot. They had seen death and destitution. But they had never seen this. The Great War seemed, to them, to be ironically named. There was nothing great about it. When first the war began, they – like the many other subjects of the Russian Empire – supported their great Tsar. They believed with all their heart that the Austrians must be punished for their transgressions against fellow Slavs in Serbia. They believed with all their heart that the war, which began in the final days of July 1914, would be won by Christmas. But now, it was September 1915. The war was not over. The town’s men, all men of fighting age, had gone – most off to war, a few left to escape it. Stefan Wladyslaw, 12 years old, was the oldest boy in all of Przasnysz.

The Germans first came in October of the previous year. The whole village was shaken awake by the sounds of war. The ground had erupted around them, sending earth and debris flying through the air. The soldiers there were rushing about, diving into trenches. In it all, were the Wladyslaws. It was a great and terrible cacophony. At some point in that miserable night, Russian guns on the other end of town began firing back.

That storm of steel lasted days with only the most minute respite. Stefan’s mother – his father had long gone off to fight in the war – shuttled her children into the basement of their old and creaking house, every night. Along with the children, came the grandparents. They hid in that damp, dark and confined space until time became meaningless – every night. On one particularly long night, Stefan’s mother had disappeared after promising to enter with them. His sister sat motionless in one corner, his grandparents lay whimpering in another – all of them trying to sleep. Despite the refuge of the basement, the thunderous roar of fire-belching cannons that was stamping their peaceful village into dust was inescapable. Sleep did not come.

Stefan pushed on the basement door. He could not bear to be without his mother – she could be dead. He had to know. But the door wouldn’t budge. He pushed and pushed again. Until he could push no more. Their oil lamp had gone out and they were left in complete darkness. Stefan slumped by the door, tears streaming down his face and screaming in anguish. He did not know when, but at some point not too long after, he curled up on the floor and went to sleep, the world still exploding above him.

He had a dreamless sleep. Uninterrupted until, with a great creaking noise, the basement door was slowly opened. The occupants of that dark abyss awoke to an unstoppable flood of bright daylight. There was a shriek of joy as Stefan’s mother rushed inside, hugging him first – who was the closest to the door and then everyone else. She ushered them outside, telling them that the battle was won and the Germans had been defeated. Their town was in pieces. There were holes on every inch of ground, crumbled walls and collapsed buildings. On the streets were strewn the remnants of life; limbs intermingled with guts, tattered clothes resting atop fallen walls, unmoving bodies entombed by rubble. The mother did her best to shield her children from the horrors of war – firmly and quickly piling the whole family back into the house.

By some miracle, the Wladyslaw’s house had remained untouched. When the family reoccupied it, the curtains were drawn and all windows tightly shut. Prayers were uttered – in unison and in private – as they thanked God and their guardian angels for their good fortune. It was late afternoon when there was a sudden rap on the door. Stefan, the closest one to the door, opened it. It was a soldier.

‘Is your mother home, little boy?’ he asked gruffly.

Stefan nodded.

‘Well, then, fetch her,’ he demanded.

Stefan did as he was asked. At that time, his mother was doing the washing up after lunch. His mother told him to busy himself while she talked to the soldier. But he didn’t. He wanted to know. He hid behind a chair and listened.

‘Evacuation orders, madam,’ the soldier said. What’s evacuation?, wondered Stefan. ‘We’re falling back and the Germans are coming.’

‘Oh… But… I-’, his mother seemed incredibly lost.

‘We cannot promise your survival if you stay, madam.’

His mother was silent. She was silent for a little time. ‘We Wladyslaw’s have called Przasnysz our home for centuries. We have weathered war before. We will not leave.’

The soldier left.

‘What does evacuation mean, mother?’ Stefan asked. His mother seemed cross that he did not listen to her but her frown gave way to a smile. She ruffled his hair and told him to go play and to not worry himself.

It did not take long for the Germans to arrive. The Germans marched down the main street in a pompous fashion, with loud music. No one much cared for it. That very night, the ground began to shake and rumble ad explode again. Again, the family ran for the basement.

This time, their house had not been so lucky. A shell had torn open the façade of the house and the street was littered by the rubble. Stefan and his mother collected blankets and sheets from inside the house to make their basement as comfortable as they could. The shelling went on for days. The Russians marched through the town again, having driven the Germans back. By the time February rolled along, Stefan had lost count of how many times the Germans and Russians had marched through the town and how many times the Wladyslaws had been told the battle was over.

Every time, in increments, their house – the house in which they had lived for centuries – was being destroyed. Slowly. But surely.

By September of 1915, there was very little of the house standing. Almost everybody had left their town. Only soldiers came and went. Still the Wladyslaws remained. Despite it all – the rotting corpses in the street, the stench of death, the plague of rats or the impending sense of certain doom, the Wladyslaws remained. When their neighbours – whom they had known for centuries – left the town, they labelled the Wladyslaws fools. They said that the Wladyslaws would find nothing but death if they remained.

How right they were.

On one night… everything was still. Silent. Were it not for the ruined buildings and pockmarked earth, the soldiers with machine guns wandering in cratered fields or the wounded men in empty streets crying for aid that was not coming, an unknowing observer would not have known the world was at war. On that night, the shelling started again. The Wladyslaws – who were sleeping in their garden at the time – were too late in getting to the basement. As they ran for cover, a cold hunk of metal fired from a gun miles away by a gunner who was wholly indifferent to the fate of the receiver, struck the one remaining wall of their house.

The Wladyslaws did not notice. They ran as fast as they could for the basement, as behind them the ruined remains of their home erupted. They ran, as fast as they could, but it mattered little. No sooner had they shut the basement door that the wall – that last wall of their beloved house – collapsed upon the heavy basement door.

And there still the Wladyslaws lie. Where the Wladyslaws have remained for centuries.