MARK GILBERT by Dorothy McNulty 1998

MARK GILBERT

29^th December 1923 - 25^th December 1993

Written by Dorothy McNulty in 1998 Dorothy (or Dotterty as Mark called her, with his Ukrainian slant). Dorothy was his long term lady friend. Dorothy lived in Stockport. They met in London when they had both, separately, gone for a weekend.

Mark and Dorothy at Clumber Park

Katherine asked me to write about Mark soon after his death, but for a long time, I found the task too heartbreaking. However, now that some time has passed and having read Vincent’s beautiful book about his Grandpa, I have decided that I must make my contribution.

I shall not attempt a life history because this has already been done very comprehensively and sympathetically by Josephine and I could only cover the same ground. So I shall give a series of snapshots, impressions and anecdotes of Mark’s life which might throw some light on the character and help to keep alive the memory of this remarkable and very loveable man.

Mark had knowledge of and ability to speak and write in at least five languages (including three alphabets!) most of which he learned the hard way, i.e. by being thrown in at the deep end and getting on with it, rather than being gently nursed into it by an educational institution. The result was that his English was sprinkled with some lovely malapropisms which it would have been a pity to correct. I still cherish the moment he announced that there was something wrong with the propellers on his coat and the day when he had a pain in his elbum. When he succeeded in making a repair so that something would work again, he would say with satisfaction, “That should play the trick”. Sometimes a Russian saying would make an appearance. I remember one of the dogs opening its jaws in an enormous canine yawn as only dogs can. Mark peered down the animals throat, saying in mock astonishment, “I can see Moscow”.

Life and events in Russia were often very sad but his keen sense of humour never failed to spot the funny side, if there was one. This ability to smile in the face of hardship was one of his great strengths and must have been an important factor in his survival.

His descriptions and stories of life in Kharkov prison always conjured up a picture of pervading greyness and of men dragging themselves through a life of sickening dull routine and deprivation. The prison was overcrowded , with many men to a cell and only the floor to sleep on. Blankets were only a distant luxury. At night the men lay down on the floor, packed so tightly that movement was nearly impossible. They would remain still until someone felt an irresistible urge to turn over. In complete silence and without any complaint or sign of irritation every single one of them, like automata, would sit-up, turn over and settle down again. In answer to the question, “How could you bear such overcrowding?”, Mark would say “It was the Russian winter and the warmth of our bodies was the only heat we had. Without it, we would have suffered even more intense cold”. From time to time the numbers dropped as some men were removed to be transported elsewhere. At these times, they looked forward eagerly to the arrival of the new inmates who would surely arrive to build up the numbers again and make the place warmer. There was a surprising tolerance in these circumstances, fights and quarrels were virtually unheard of.

In common with many of his compatriots, Mark loved the game of chess. During his time in Kharkov Prison he and some friends found that if they chewed bread to a paste, they could model tiny chessmen which if they left to harden, were quite usable. Once the set was compete, all they had to do was to scratch the board on the floor and they had a great luxury that would bring much pleasure into their bleak lives. It must have seemed very unfair that their guards should have the vindictiveness to reward their ingenuity by confiscating the pathetic little chessmen and scraping out the board with their boots. Yet this is what they did.

It was at Kharkov that Mark received his sentence of a term of hard labour (I think it was about 20 years) followed by exile for life. He never saw his judges, nor any court of law and was never given a chance to answer the charge that he was an enemy of the Russian people, which he most certainly was not!

Life in the labour camps of the Siberian forests was hard. There was a fearful brutality born of a long history of denial of the rights and dignity of the individual. The Russians could have borrowed Dante’s gloomy message at the entrance to Hell, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here”, because it was the unmistakable purpose that all who belonged should lose their will to oppose. Mark never forgot his own introduction. They were told that to attempt to escape was certain death because ”...if we and the dogs don’t catch you, the bears will”. He also remembered the terrible day when he and his fellow prisoners were returning to their sleeping quarters after a hard day’s work. They filed past some benches on which lay a sickening sight. On looking closer, they realised they were looking at what was left of a small group of Latvians who had decided to make a bid for freedom. It need only be said that the dogs had taken them and the torn bodies were laid out as a warning to anyone thinking of escaping. This dreadful picture must have been in Mark’s mind when he made his own attempt.

Even while his own life was overcast by the darkest shadows, he could still lift himself above the degrading emotion of self-pity and spare thoughts for the suffering of others. He often spoke of an Indian prisoner whose situation must have been frightful. He wondered what an Indian could be doing in such a place but he never found out because the poor man could not speak a word of any of the languages spoken there and he made no attempt to communicate. He had simply retreated into his own private hell. Mark was deeply touched by this man’s suffering and although he tried to help, he found that he was unable to establish any kind of contact. The man was too withdrawn to make any response. The memory of this sad and lonely figure never left him.

Mark’s life was nothing if not episodic and with his escape a new phase was beginning which brought a strange kind of freedom. One filled with new perils and the ever present knowledge that to be caught was a certain death. Yet, even here there were moments of grim humour.

It was in this part of his life that he experienced the worst hunger. Prison and camp food was poor in quality and quantity but at least he was given something to eat, however meagre. Alone in the wild, he had to forage and fend for himself, sometimes with little success.

Wandering cold and desperately hungry one moonlit but misty night, he heard the sound of a large animal moving about nearby. He stood still, wondering what it could be - ‘a bear? wolf? large cat?. Evan at the worst of times Mark always managed to have a weapon-cum-tool. This was his first priority. When he escaped he had equipped himself with a small wood-man’s axe from the tools used by the prisoners in their forestry work. This had been carefully hidden and jealously guarded until the time came to go. He prepared to defend himself now, but was surprised and relieved to see an old donkey plodding into view. His first love among animals was for the equine family and this love extended even to the humble donkey-but this was no time for sentimentality. All Mark could think about was juicy steak-this was food! He began to stalk the donkey which stopped, eyed him suspiciously and nimbly made a side-step as Mark approached. Mark tried again but once more the wise old donkey took evasive action-he was no fool. It must have been a delightful picture, the two of them performing a fantastic ballet in the moonlight. Mark didn’t say how long this went on but the upshot was that the donkey won and Mark had to go hungry. He may not have felt it at the time, but many years later on. He had a sneaking admiration for the donkey. “He knew exactly what my intention was” he said.

From time to time he was able to gain casual work which was particularly welcome as this type of work usually included some rough shelter and food. It was an opportunity to meet others similarly situated. Nobody ever knew much about the others and it was ‘not done’ to ask questions. They were like ships passing in the night. In such a place there was a young man who had black glossy wavy hair of which he was obviously conscious and very proud of. Their earning had enabled them to obtain some cigarettes (a rare luxury). Mark lit a paper at the stove and offered to light the young man’s cigarette. As the flame came near to his hair there was a whoosh and his head was enveloped in flames. Mark acted quickly. Without thinking. He embraced the young man, holding his own jacket around his head until the flames died. Miraculously, there was no serious injury on either side but the beautiful hair was a mass of brown singed frizz. In silence and as though nothing untoward had happened, the two young men resumed their seats and continued to enjoy their evening, one of them half bald but showing no ill feeling whatever. Mark often wondered what the explosive hair-lotion could have been and found it cause for wonder that vanity can appear in such unlikely places.

One spring day he found himself in the market place of a small town. It was obvious from the pitiful and paltry items for sale that the people were almost as poor as he was. Among the goods were miserable bunches of herbs, dried up vegetables, threadbare clothes and worn out shoes. Mark wondered what he could sell. Suddenly a brainwave struck him. He could sell his underpants!! He disappeared and very soon reappeared proffering his worn out merchandise. It seems unbelievable but they were snapped up. An old women, satisfied herself that the quality was good enough and went home pleased with her bargain. Mark was able to buy a small loaf of bread that would keep him going for another day or two.

Storks nest in Mark's home village.

Storks are special birds to all North and East Europeans. When they return after their long migration to the south, they are the sure signal that the hard winter is over and they are welcomed as friends and encouraged to nest close to or on roofs of the houses. They were an important part of Mark’s childhood memories. When, later on, after joining the Polish army, he was on board ship crossing the Caspian Sea, on his journey to the West, he saw a stork (no doubt exhausted on its migration flight) floundering in the sea. The bird attempted to take off many times but always fell back into the choppy water. The ship soon left the distressed bird behind and Mark never knew if it managed to get into the air again but suspected that it did not. This sad little story says much about Mark’s character. It is typical of him that he should feel such deep pity for the suffering of a dumb creature and that he remembered and spoke of it a whole lifetime later.

During and just after the war, everything was rationed in the United Kingdom. People had their allowance of food etc. and no more. To deal in, to buy and to sell rationed goods outside the rationing system was strictly illegal and such trading was known as the Black Market. Black marketeering was seen as unpatriotic and helping the enemy. Heinous crimes in time of war. This was the state of the country when Mark arrived. He heard that all kinds of good things, not available in the shops, could be obtained on the Black Market. He had not been here long when he boldly walked up to two policemen in the market square of a busy Scottish Town and in his newly acquired English, asked to be directed to the Black Market.

Although he could be stern of aspect, there was always an impish love of mischief hovering about him which could be misleading to people who did not know him. One day he bought a large can of paint and was carrying it through a large department store when the can fell on the floor and burst open spilling its contents in a slowly growing pool of magnolia hue. Mark immediately turned round to two elderly ladies who were behind him and said in a booming voice “Now look what you’ve done”. They looked at him, then at each other and beat a hasty retreat, for all the world as though they had something to be ashamed of.

Probably the most wonderful thing about Mark was that despite having had his young life smashed into pieces by a series of near – disastrous events, he remained free from bitterness, hate, prejudice or intolerance. In the circumstances, this was a superb achievement in itself. Perhaps the explanation lies in his own philosophy that if, after making every effort, we are still unable to improve a situation, we should accept whatever fate may throw at us and (in his own words) “Face life with a smile”.