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Communism As I Know It
Communism As I Know It
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his execution. They were afraid of the people so they decided to do this bloody job during the night of
May 30, 1942. Frank was forced to stand on the edge of a grave. A Communist eyewitness declared
that at this moment the moon shone on the scene. Frank stood quietly and looked into the place of his
"rest." Then he pulled a prayer book from his pocket and began to pray. Suddenly, a rifle shot broke
the silence of the night. From point-blank range the executioner, Joseph Kovacic, from Zigmarice, sent
the bullet into Frank's head... My 33-year-old brother collapsed into the grave. The prayer book fell
out of Frank's hands. Those present threw it on his back before they covered his body with the soil.
We were fortunate to find Frank's grave in the woods on August 19, 1942. I recognized his body at
once. His head was shattered. The prayer book was still lying on his back. I lifted up his jacket and
shirt from his back. Signs of terrible torture were obvious. The dorsal side was covered with black
marks, signs of flogging and beating. We placed Frank's corpse in a coffin and transported it to the
Cemetery of St. Mark's. During the funeral procession - a journey of 10 miles from the place of
execution to St. Mark's Cemetery - the good people of the Sodrazica Valley threw flowers on the
hearse.
Dead, Frank was receiving recognition among the people for his unselfish deed and still more, for his
martyr's death. The Communists thought that they had rid themselves of their dangerous opponent.
They did not think at that time that his blood would make a hundred more enemies. The Communists
wanted to eradicate his Catholic belief but they did not realize that Frank's spirit would live on. They
were convinced that they had won when he was dead. The majestic funeral procession of the martyr
was proof of their moral defeat. The Communists saw that the people whom they confidently thought
were on their side spoke now, without words, against them. But if they could not keep the minds of
the people in check, they would run dangerously on and lose the game. What was to be done?
Night Of Horror
Our family went about its normal business on that fateful evening of August 26, 1942. It was just one
week after my brother's internment. As on any other evening, we said the Family Rosary. Who would
have ever thought that this evening's prayer was going to be the last for us as a family ...
I bid my parents, my brother, John, and my three teenage sisters goodnight and went upstairs to my
bedroom. I had not been sleeping for an hour when, suddenly, the barking of our watch-dog woke me
up. Through the window I saw a group of armed Communists approaching our house. I knew right
away the meaning of this night visit. Something horrible was going to happen to us tonight!
I ran to the next room where there was a door into the attic. I grabbed the ladder, opened the door,
climbed up, pulled up the ladder after me and shut the door. Meanwhile, the pane in the hall window
was broken. The Communist brigands forced their way into the hall through the window. At the same
time, mother and father came out from their bedroom. Frightened, they started to call for help. But
the Communists silenced them. One of them knocked my mother on the head with the butt of his rifle
so that she staggered. Then he pushed her and father into the living room where my lame brother
John, and my three sisters were already under the supervision of the Communist guard, Vinko Lusin,
from Kot.
Upon the arrival of my parents into the living room, my father began to say loudly the Act of
Contrition. But, when the family started with the Rosary, the Communist guard forbade them to pray!
Frightened and severely injured from the blow, my mother asked for a glass of water. The brute
snubbed her with a shameful remark and refused to allow her to take some water. The Communists
were constantly asking my mother for my whereabouts. They knew I was at home; my bed and my
clothes in my bedroom were proof of that. They did not see me escape from the house ... I must be
somewhere in the house ... but where?
In the meantime, the Communist mob plundered our property. They actually "freed" us from
everything - I mean everything! When the plundering was finished, I heard someone asking: "Ronko,
what should we do now?" Ronko, the Commanding Officer, answered: "Just this, and then..." He did
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not finish his sentence. A Communist then entered the living room and started to berate my parents
and lame John in a manner as only the devil could.
When this Red beast finished his speech, he commanded the other guards to separate my father from
the rest of the family. My mother, sisters, and John pleaded with the Communists to release our father.
But a stone, I think, would have shown more mercy than a Communist! They forced my father
to leave the living room. One more glimpse at his beloved wife, one last look at his children, whom he
loved so much, and he went to his slaughter.
While he was on his "death march" to the basement, my father prayed loudly. My sisters heard him
say: "Jesus, I have lived for Thee, Jesus, I die for Thee. Jesus, alive or dead I am Thine..."
Perhaps father did not finish his prayer when, upon reaching the basement, a Communist knocked him
on the head with the butt end of a rifle. My father, 63 years old, a fine Catholic layman, collapsed,
dead, on the concrete floor.
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Shortly after the rattling of the tins, I heard my mother's shrill weeping. Then everything became dead
silent except for the three strong blows which sounded as if someone were beating a door with a hard
club. I got the impression that the Communist bandits had left the house and taken the rest of my
family with them.
At last, the long hours of the terrible night were finally over. Through the little windows in the attic, I
saw some of our neighbors walking around the house. Since I did not see any Communist guard, I
ventured to step down from the place of my agony. In the door of the storeroom outside the house, I
spotted the key in the keyhole. I quickly turned the key, opened the door and, after the frightful night,
a faint gleam of hope and happiness shone in my eyes: I saw my three little sisters - alive! They could
not understand how I stood before them alive...
But where were John, and father, and mother...? Suddenly a neighbor came running from the house
and said that there was a frightful scene in the basement. We hurried into the cellar. A most horrifying
sight met our eyes! Father, mother, John ... all dead! There was blood, a lot of blood, on the basement
floor. Father was lying behind the door, his body stretched out. There were two large wounds on his
head. His skull was split in two above the right ear. The cheekbone on the right side was wide open.
John's bed, in which he was resting, was placed beside father. His eyes were open and his mouth as
well. His face looked as if he were smiling. Coagulated blood was on his forehead, nose and ears.
The body of my mother was lying on the cement floor about a pace away. She was in a prostrate
position, her face much swollen. The crown of her skull was broken. From the posture, it could be seen
that mother must have been battling with death for a long time and that she had died only after much
suffering. Kneeling at my mother's body, I then understood the crying which I had heard up in the
attic. When she entered the basement, she saw a most terrifying picture: husband killed, her
paralyzed child perhaps breathing his last, and the same fate awaiting her...
At least one of her life-wishes was fulfilled in this night of horror. My mother always feared for her
crippled son, John. What would happen to him when she died? Who would take care of him? Often, I
remember having heard my mother say: "If John could die at least one minute before I go, my heart
would be at peace."
What a mysterious answer to her prayer! Her dream came true on the very night of horror. And I am
sure that this made her death agony a little bit easier ...
Two of our neighbors were courageous enough to help my sisters and me with the washing of the
corpses, dressing them, and placing them in the coffins.
On the following day, August 28, 1942, at about 10:00 in the morning, three coffins were slowly
moving up to St. Mark's Cemetery. After the Requiem Mass, two men and I had to carry the coffins
from the Church and lower them into the graves. The people were afraid to show sympathy. They read
the sign which the Communist murderers posted on the front of our house: "Thus shall happen to
everyone who is against us! Death to the traitors! Long live the Communist Party!"
Of course, the Communists did not forget to engrave the sign of death on the wall of our house sickle and hammer.
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