12 km from the Balarka colony, the UPA murdered three wealthy Polish families.

source: Żurek Stanisław, „75th anniversary of the genocide – February 1943”; in: portal: Volhynia — web page: wolyn.org [accessible: 2021.02.04]

From February, Poles spent the night in the forest, hiding in swamps, in built shelters. There were numerous frostbites, especially among children. Some stayed in trees. Some of them fled to Huta Stepańska. 25 families remained and were murdered on May 9. The farms were burnt down and the village ceased to exist. „I was born in the town of Balarka, Silno commune, Lutsk county, Derażne parish. Family: we were two brothers – I, Edward, was born [in] 1933, and brother Romuald [in] 1935, also in Balarka. We had two hectares of land, a new wooden house. We lived modestly  […] Banderowce attacked our village on May 9, 1943. My father was at home at that time, he was cooking food, he opens the door of his cousin and says «Uncle, run away, because there is a robbery». He left the house. It was already visible how from the forest they started to circle the village. Those who were [in their farms], they started to run towards a small river, they sought shelter there. The father ran away there too. This gang, when they entered the village, started to burn down old houses. Our [ego] did not burn because it was new and it was covered with shingles. Several people from our village were murdered. In the morning my father came to see us at Huta. They took everything from the house, even what was buried – and they got to know it and took”.

source: Żurek Stanisław, „75th anniversary of the genocide – May 1943, Spring 1943”; in: portal: Volhynia — web page: wolyn.org [accessible: 2021.02.04]

source: Szpringel Edward, „God saved us”; in: portal: Volhynia – letter from Edward Szpringel / Szpryngiel /, former inhabitant of Balarka colony to Ewa and Władysław Siemaszko, dated October 2, 2001 - found and inserted by Bogusław Szarwiło — web page: wolyn.org [accessible: 2021.04.11]

The attack on our colony began on the second Sunday of May 1943. I remember that day exactly: At noon, together with my father and his younger brother – Aleksander – we rested in the orchard after lunch. The day was sunny and hot. The sun was so bright that it dazzled the eyes. The hot air froze to a stillness that not even the aspen leaves trembled. There was a sweet, deaf silence all around, as if time had stopped. Even the chirping of the birds had ceased, and whoever was alive was seeking shade. Lying on the warm, fragrant ground, in the shade of a tree, I listened to a concert of grasshoppers in the grass. I felt sleepy. Even the dog fell asleep, chained by the kennel. Only domestic birds roamed lazily around the yard. It is at such a time that you forget about safety. The blissful mood suddenly and brutally breaking into the silence of Sunday afternoon was interrupted by the roar of gunshots from the side of the forest. In an instant it became clear – it was a robbery. At first we saw our neighbors' cottages burning. Father noticed that bandits were using incendiary balls. We took refuge in a flash in the cabin, where by the wall in the corner of the room, a terrified mother hugged crying sisters. A moment of hesitation what to do and an immediate, unanimous decision, you should run away towards the river into the swamps and alder forests. We run out of the house and run down the hill through the village towards the old riverbed. I can see the pens burning. I hear the whistle of bullets above my head and terrible screams of terrified people fleeing in the same direction. I try to stay close to my mother, who is carrying my two‑year‑old sister Alfreda in her arms. Father is running by, carrying sister Teresa. I am hellishly tired, bullets are whistling over my head, fear paralyzes my body, my mutilated bare feet hurt, I have no strength to run, I stumble over potato radishes and fall over and over again. My mother, staggering on her feet, lifts me up. Father exhorts: faster and faster! I want to rest, pee – please. – Do in the pants – asks the mother. – I can't, I can't – I answer, crying. As I run, I feel a terrible stomach ache build up with every step, it feels like something is about to burst. Suddenly relieved, my pants are full. Extremely exhausted, we no longer have the strength to run, so we take refuge in my father's uncle's hut, which is not yet on fire. He himself does not want to run away and urges us to stay. He claims that he has done nothing wrong to the Ukrainians, so he does not have to flee from them, his sons disagree and are begging him to run away. My father's uncle made a terrible mistake and overpaid it with his life, the poor poor did not know that the Ukrainians assumed the murder of all Poles, without any exceptions, from babies to old people. The Ukrainians not only did not spare their Polish neighbors, but also their families from Polish–Ukrainian marriages. In my father's uncle's house we felt relatively safe up to a point. When the bullets started falling through the windows and there was a fear that one of the fireballs that lit the hut would burn, we were overcome with fear. – Let's run! – I am begging my parents. The parents must have been afraid too if they decided to run away. The few hundred meters left to the swamps, we ran under a hail of bullets. Only a miracle prevented any of us from being hit, although many were killed or injured. In the swamps, waist–deep in the water, we moved rapidly towards the riverbed. We knew the marshes well, we went to the river there more than once. In places where it was deeper, we jumped from clump to clump. A couple of times, when I couldn't find harder ground, I fell down to my ears and was dragged out of the water. I smelled of silt and rotten leaves. I was soaked to the skin, and my clothes were dripping with water and mud. The Ukrainians shelled the area, but they did not venture into the swamps. For us who knew the terrain, alder and marshes were a natural protection against the enemy. We stayed in the marshes until the evening, until the shots stopped. After leaving our hiding place, we saw a red glow in the distance spreading over the entire horizon. It was our colony that was on fire, and clouds of thick smoke rose above it, connecting the earth with the sky with a black, long veil, blocking the setting sun, it looked ghastly. The straw–covered wooden huts burned down quickly, only the stumps of the chimneys stood still and howled with pain, stroked by the red tongues of the flames. The smoke billowed and swirled, inducing bouts of coughing. We closed our mouths and noses, standing helplessly at a safe distance from the fire that made the air white and burned our faces. I could smell the stench of smoke, burned human and animal bodies. I heard my own heart pounding and the screams of the inhabitants. I couldn't stand any longer. I fell sore on the ground like a tree trunk cut from its roots, hungry and thirsty in fear that they would come back and kill us as they killed the others. We waited for the smoke to settle and each of us looked for our hut, hoping quietly that somehow, at least partially, had survived the fire. Unfortunately, the illusions were quickly lost, the screeching reality remained. There was no miracle fire took everything from us, there was nothing to save. Walking towards Huta Stefańska, in order to seek shelter, we passed by the still smoking ruins of my uncle, who decided to stay, I saw his charred body on the ashes of the hut. Stabbed by the Ukrainians with bayonets, it burned down along with the hut. His sons were witnesses of his death, who escaped at the last moment unnoticed through a window at the back of the house into the swamp. Walking further along the edge of the village, we heard the call of a dying woman from the only hut that had survived the fire. The cabin was low, and through the window it was easy to see a woman stabbed with knives lying in a pool of blood under the bed. When she was dying, she asked for help. It was Janka Horoszkiewicz – our relative. She hid under the bed because she was afraid they would come back and torture her further. She died on the second day after being transported to the hospital in Rafałówka, before her death, she managed to tell the course of events. I was feeling sick, fed up with similar views, weak, exhausted, unable to continue my journey, vomiting. With this brutal and cruel attack, the Ukrainian barbarians forced me to watch such cruel scenes. I was five then, and I remember so many brutal and bloody episodes that haunt me until today in my memories and dream at night. There are times when I scream in my sleep awakening a terrified family. that haunt me until today in my memories and dream at night. There are times when I scream in my sleep awakening a terrified family. that haunt me in my memories to this day and dream at night. There are times when I scream in my sleep awakening a terrified family.

source: Żurek Stanisław, „75th anniversary of the genocide – May 1943, Spring 1943”; in: portal: Volhynia — web page: wolyn.org [accessible: 2021.02.04]

source: Horoszkiewicz Edward, „Crimes of the OUN-UPA in Volhynia during the occupation”, Historical Club Gen. Stefan Rowecki "Grot" in Kalisz, excerpts from the reading; in: portal: Volhynia – found and inserted: Bogusław Szarwiło — web page: wolyn.org [accessible: 2021.04.11]

[The Ukrainians] burned 17 Polish farms and murdered 3 elderly Poles, including 2 women who did not want to leave their homes during the earlier evacuation of residents to Rafałówka.

source: Żurek Stanisław, „75th anniversary of the genocide – July 1943”; in: portal: Volhynia — web page: wolyn.org [accessible: 2021.02.04]