[The Ukrainians] murdered 7 Poles from 2 Pózikowski families and the so—called Dębina, the Kozubski family of three. „At the start of World War II in 1939, I was 14 years old and one of five children in the family of the so—called impoverished nobility. I lived with my family on a fur coat, which was the remainder of my grandfather Edward Pózichowski's property  […] There was no housing estate or farm within a radius of 3 km from the village. There were farms of military settlers on the so—called Weteranówce, and in the north—east on the so—called Dębina was inhabited by my great—grandfather Kozubski, Niepoczętowski and a Russian from Siedielnik, and a very poor military settler, Fabian Staniszewski. Next to us, a Ukrainian neighbor, Fedosiuk, and his family lived next to us  […] On Sunday, the first day of August 1943, the day was humid and even the sun was hazy. We walked on the fur in despondency, avoiding each other. The priest was gone, so we didn't go to church either. In the evening, as usual, our Ukrainian neighbor, aleksander Fedosiuk, came to visit us. In a conversation with my brother Wacław, he said that times are turbulent, but we did not hurt anyone, so if we were in danger — it is because of our long—standing friendship — aleksander will warn us, we will go to Central Poland. He confirmed it, and at 2: 00 am he came with an armed unit of UPA bandits to murder my whole family. The tragedy of the night from 1st to 2nd August 1943 cannot be forgotten. Part of my family, ie my father, mother, two sisters and the youngest brother, have been sleeping in barns and hay sheds for many days. We were awakened by the light of flashlights and an order in Russian, to go to the apartment to conduct a search, because apparently we have a gun. Due to the heat, we were wearing skimpy nightwear, only my mother put her feet into her shoes. as I walked, escorted by armed bandits, down the raspberry bushes from the outbuildings to the apartment, I saw that all the windows in the house were fenced off by armed men. In their apartment, they woke my brother Wacław and ordered him to gather in one room so as not to disturb them during the search. There were 12 of us, i.e. 10 from my family and Uncle Bernard and his wife. The bandits were speaking Russian all the time, impersonating the Soviet partisans, and only when they told «that they were close to» and «were you chotite of the self—contained Ukraine» (we Poles) did we realize who it was and that it was over. I saw my mother's pale face and we didn't even have time to answer when three series of machine—gun shots were fired from the hall door. From a distance of 2—3 meters, I saw flashes during the shots. The shot—down light of the kerosene lamp standing on the table in front of us plunged the room into darkness and I lost consciousness. When I woke up — I prayed. I was lying on the floor under someone's heavy body, which maybe in the last convulsions was drawing me under it. I heard his wheezing breath, the moans of the dying and the multiple screams of my 14‑year‑old brother Rysio «I don't want» like that. Nothing hurt, and when I lifted my head, I saw against the light in my uncle's room (behind the hall) that no one was in the hall. The bandits rushed to rob their uncle and farm buildings. Guided by the instinct of life, guided by the instinct — I stood up and wading in blood almost up to my ankles, I slipped through the side door to the kitchen. There, by the couch by the window overlooking the path to the farm buildings, without thinking. I jumped out and fell into the raspberry bushes right next to this path. On the couch, a pillowcase was stuck to my bare feet, wet with blood, and my eyes were dripping with blood from the head wound. at that time, I thought nothing, because if common sense had been working, I had seen the windows of the house lined up earlier and I would not have tried to escape there. Jumping out of the window, I saw a glow of fire in the side of the Kozubski family residence. I was like a hunted animal. I lay numb with fear when naked I heard bandits running and cursing in Ukrainian, and at the same time a shot above my head. In one second I thought they'd discovered me and I cringed waiting for the blow but then they saw my sister Jadwiga running away to the rose and jasmine bushes. They killed her and then set her on fire. after this fact, the bandits returned to the dead room. They lit the lamp wick and killed Wacław's 8—day—old baby crying in the cradle, and took the shoes off my mother's feet, who was lying on the couch under Wacław's body, thinking that she was a corpse. They fired two more series of shots over the dead bodies and, ending the robbery of clothes, bedding, etc. in the house and machines and livestock in farm buildings — they set them on fire and drove away. I heard single detonations near the burning warehouse buildings — it was Wacław's ammunition, pseudonym «Gołąb», who was the commander of the organized Home Army unit. But I didn't know about it and thought that the bandits were still working. The wound on my head was dry and my right leg hurt more and more, because I had three crutches in my thigh, which, as it turned out in Koszlaki, did not damage my bones. Mosquitoes, feeling blood, buzzed over me, and when it was daytime I decided to go out and seek help. Walking near the house, through the broken window, I saw the body of the dead brother Wacław, leaning against the wall with wounds on his temple, the shattered head of an 8—day—old baby in a cradle, and no one answered my call. I also saw the burning corpse of my sister Jadwiga lying next to the jasmines. I thought I was just alone and didn't know what to do. I was limping bloodied like a ghost towards the buildings of my Ukrainian neighbor, when suddenly from behind the trees in my neighbor's yard I heard the screams and voices of my sister—in—law, Maria: «Mummy — Gina is alive!» (that's what my family used to call me). It is impossible to describe a mother's despair over the loss of her children and such a good husband. She looked unconscious or deranged. None of us cried, because the tears seemed to dry out of pain. The Ukrainians — neighbors with aleksander Fedosiuk stood with their heads lowered, and in front of them stood in their underwear: sick (after puerperium) sister—in—law Maria with a scared one and a half year old son (in a shirt) in her arm. my mother and my uncle Bernard's wife, wounded in the leg, was lying on the ground. They left the corpse room when mom called: «Get up who's alive!». At that time, my uncle Bernard, who was still alive, spoke and asked: «Pull me, I don't want to burn myself». Women dragged him outside the house with difficulty because he was in a state of agony and his head was rattling down the stairs. He had multiple wounds in his chest and his right arm was shot off at the ankle. It was he who was covering me and taking his hand under him, and the bullet that hurt my head broke off his hand. He also died immediately. During this massacre, even the less than two‑year‑old s/o Wacław, crushed on the couch with the body of his killed father and lying grandmother, i.e. my mother, began to cry, and when she whispered to him: «Don't cry, Grandma is with you» He didn't say anything until the end of the massacre and at grandmother's call, he stood up like a pale and frightened ghost. For weeks the child did not speak and did not cry. It was as silent as mute, and just wouldn't let go of itself  […] On the morning of August 2, 1943, the d/o Bernard's uncle, Walentyna, returned home for futor. On a tragic Sunday she was at her friend's house in the town. My mother was always energetic, and now realizing that she had to save us — before pouring water from the barrels standing next to the pump on the burning window — she jumped into the apartment to get the scraps of clothing and linen to dress her wounds, but there was nothing there. In court, adjacent to our neighbor Fedosiuk, she found some of our clothes, which the bandits had stolen and lost when carrying them. With the help of the children of the very poor military settler Staniszewski and the Nicpoczętowski family, who lived a few kilometers from the fur, my mother twisted the harness from the strings into an old pram, standing in a shed next to the Ukrainian neighbor's buildings (and therefore not burned down). Staniszewski's children found and brought an old mare grazing in the meadow — a pensioner, which her mother harnessed to a pram. The wounded women and the child were laid on it, the only cow that escaped from the bandits was tied, and they went on foot to Koszlak, about 10 km away. as a farewell, my mother told the The Ukrainians that God should pay them for what they had done to us. If we stayed in fur until the evening, the bandits would surely kill us, just like many Poles, who did not manage to escape from Białozórka. We reached Koszlak around noon. and there the Polish Committee for the Protection of Refugees, with the help of German soldiers, gave us medical help and took care of us, and on the next day we were transported to Zbaraż. a few Poles, with the consent of the Germans, went from Koszlaki to futor and to the Kozubski farm, but no one was alive there anymore. Our Ukrainian neighbor Fedosiuk escaped with his family from fur, fearing revenge, but none of the Poles took revenge on them. The same bandits on the same night on August 2, 1943 murdered the Kozubski family, killing Narcyz, his wife Helena and 18‑year‑old daughter Emilia. Only their youngest son, apollinarius, survived. Hearing the bandits coming, he escaped and took refuge in a tree. He did not speak up when his father called him on the orders of the Ukrainians. He currently lives in Rzeszów. The s/o my uncle Bernard, Hieronim Pózichowski, took care of the castaways. who took us to Brzeżany, where he worked on the estate. I started working in the Junak Records office, but was unconscious and numb. at the end of November 1943, our guardian, Hieronim, went to work in the mansion near Brzeżany in the morning and never came back. I learned from one of the employees that a Ukrainian gang tortured him to death in barbed wire and that even his body was not issued”.

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

source: Owczarczak Regina, „My memories of my experiences in Volhynia until 1943”; in: «Memory and Hope» Association in Chełm — web page: www.pamiec-nadzieja.org.pl [accessible: 2011.04.23]