Roman Sanguszko

Driven by my daughter to do family history research, not a normal condition for me, I have mostly drifted through vaguely remembered anecdotes from my father, some very sparse remaining notes he left, and all those images that I am trying to connect them to. These people seem poised, sometimes smiling, mostly stiff and into some kind of self-image drama that they thought important to share. It is possible that we are alone in the world, now, knowing them, knowing not just only a little bit about them, but even knowing about the existence of  the little niche within a niche that they inhabited. And if they were to be exposed, like the charismatic characters from a late and post Tsarist Masterpiece Classic soap, which they obviously are, it would be very unfair to all their peers from back in sunny Odessa-by-the-(Black)sea, who were often probably equally worthy of attention. But the homes in which these photo albums lay have been deliberately burned by angry mobs, and the memory bearers hacked to death by Cossacks while they were hopefully shopping for stale crumbs in an abandoned market-place without enough kopeks to pay for anything anyway. It strikes me how expressed in their gentle smiles and affected poses was a smug comfort in their slight privilege in a very ordinary world, which, little did they know, was just about to fall to the greatest and most sustained horror on the planet Earth in the history of our species.

In the comments to the photos I sent you a few days ago I begun by mentioning that Maksymilian Gorecki was a central character to events in our family back then and there, but connecting even more threads was a person who affected the lives of millions, and who was soon to die a terrible death, a Prince of royal blood and ancient lineage, Roman Sanguszko. His end, like the end of many things and people that seemed forever, happened in 1917, the time all those smiles faded, when Bloodlands caught and earned its name.

I have read about him in the past, his story even touched Joseph Conrad who, oddly, heard of him while on a rare visit to Odessa, and later wrote a short story with Sanguszko as a character. Odessa was probably the first time the young Conrad saw the sea. He rarely touched on Polish subjects: he wrote mainly about the sea. To me the tale of the prince condenses, explains, and almost caricatures the events of that period. I prefer to not mess with my memory by researching too many sources; distorted views is what history is all about, and my slant holds truths missed by others. This is a Polocentric perspective. It takes for given what is little known and confirms what is often suspected.

The earliest recorded Sanguszko was the older brother of the first Jagiellon dynasty king of Poland, a native of Lithuania; his coat of arms was the coat of arms of Lithuania. This Roman Sanguszko, there were other Sanguszkos with that first name, was related to all the royalty of Europe, held wealth and property greater than that of many countries and led a grand, noble, but mostly very tragic life. His title and property was recognized by the Russians, who at that time occupied that part of Poland. He married the love of his life, an apparently wonderful woman, a royal princess already and the girl next-door to boot, and they led a Camelotish sort of life until she died from complications following childbirth. He decided, in his grief, to spend the rest of his life in chilly cell as a monk, but another insurrection against Russia broke out at that very time, so he joined the Polish ranks instead. After a while he distinguished himself enough to become the commander of an army, fought many battles where his tiny contingent of hardened warriors swept aside vast hordes of savage Russians, as is the Polish custom, but eventually was defeated and taken prisoner.

The attitude to Poland in Russia and in some other countries back then was that since it did not exist, and that its name should not be mentioned, anybody championing its cause was what we would today call a terrorist. Sanguszko was stripped of his titles and property, bound in chains, and made to walk from Poland, across the continent of Eurasia, all the way to Siberia, dragging all that heavy metal. There he was interned in a concentration/labor camp. Since this was so obviously a left-leaning, bleeding heart, liberal abandonment of proper justice, his sentence of hard labor was overturned on appeal by the prosecutors, and he was recruited into the ranks of the Russian army, as a private, and put in the front ranks of forces bringing peace, justice, and prosperity to the confused people of the Caucasus, which the Russians are generously struggling to put in place to this very day. There he was wounded, resulting in the loss of use of one of his legs.  Additionally he fell from his horse at some point and suffered some brain damage causing loss of hearing.

 The administration started losing interest in him. Eventually, mainly because of his deteriorating health, he was dismissed from the army and returned to Wołyń (Vohlynia) and established himself in the palace and property owned by his daughter in Sławuta, which is in the region where our family comes from. Since she owned a vast fortune and property, and loyally allowed him to administer it, he was soon back in business trying to turn the tide of history and make this a better world. Sławuta became an industrial town with textile factories and other industries bringing employment and prosperity to the local, mainly Ukrainian, population. He transformed the countryside into a parkland, collected artwork from around the world and established a vast library to help raise the cultural level of the region. Even the Tsar became aware of his impact on the world, invited him for tea and cookies, and gave him a most impressive portrait of himself to hang over Sanguszko's mantelpiece in the main hall of his Sławuta palace.

The Tsar himself soon found himself in a spot of trouble, what with the Russian Revolution, World War I, and all the milling around that happened at that time. Bolsheviks arrived in Volhynia, as they did in pretty much everywhere else that they cleared the German, White, Interventionist, and Ukrainian forces from. A large army, loose, without much purpose, leadership, or discipline camped out in Sławuta.  I have no idea what their ethnic details were. Most probably they were Russians, descendants of Orthodox Christians and now rabid Communists: the Soviet Army, soon to be the dreaded Red Army. They were not the kind of folks to respect and kowtow to haughty Polish lords, "Polskie Pany" as they were known.

It must have been winter and a cold day. Some soldiers, saws, axes and other gear at hand, were busy chopping down a tree for firewood. A couple of Pany, relatives of Sanguszko himself, rode down the same country lane and caught sight of the incident. One rode up to the savage who was hacking at the precious plant that had been imported from Australia or Argentina at great cost and trouble, and told him to stop at once. The savage sneered, so the Pan struck him with his horsewhip, the customary form of address to sullen and revolting Ukrainian and Russian serfs. However, these were different times already. These serfs were armed, with little red stars on their hats, and they were in no mood to take this kind of shit. One drew a gun and fired at the rider. Both the Pany sensibly drew spurs into their mounts ribs and made a quick exit, heading for the palace.

Too late. The spirit of Revolution spread through the army camp, and a mob of raging soldiers begun to pursue the fleeing horsemen, firing their guns, shouting for support from the other happy campers, roughing up their own officers who were trying to contain them, and gathering more arms from the arsenal which had been breached by them. The palace Cossacks and other servants drew close the gates and, gathered their own arms, and a short siege begun. Soon the walls were breached, and the soldiers begun to run amok on the grounds. Instead of ducking down into the secret passage that would have led him to safety out of the palace grounds, Sanguszko, eighty three years old and limping badly, confronted the soldiers by appearing on the palace terrace. He addressed them, and gently appealed to their reason. They howled with joy at seeing him, stormed the terrace, lifted him on their bayonets, beat him to death.

They had little interest in the artwork or the library, or even the furniture and other hardware of the building, but found it useful as kindling to set the rest of the building on fire. The portrait of the Tsar, alone, was allowed to remain on the wall above the mantelpiece, but it too, obviously, perished in the flames. They gathered all the gold and silver they could lay their hands on, hoping that they could make a deal with the Jews of Sławuta for money, food, and of course alcohol. The Jews accommodated them, but afterwards paid a terrible price for having gathered such a fortune.

The Ukrainians held back at that moment, seeing all their enemies at each other. The remaining Poles either hid, fled, or were banished or killed by whoever remained in control of the area. At this time the area is pretty homogenous ethnically, populated by Ukrainians.

The above is a partial presentation of the makings of Polish Russophobia, anti-Semitism, and contempt for Ukrainians. There are many more tales to support these kinds of positions that many Polish people take. Omitted from this account are the acts of horror committed by Polish people on the other, above mentioned groups (well, aside from the delicate application of the horsewhip, had to mention that).