The Magurka Massacre
(a great one-day novel)
Then I came up with my own book about World War II.
There is a new memorial outside the cemetery at Magurka, a big black tombstone:
In memory of the 70 unarmed men who were shot nearby in late October 1944. They were residents of Kunešov of German nationality.
They are innocent victims of the cruelty of war.
So I have a version of The Missing of the Somme right under my nose. Instead, I look at the mossy ruins of stone walls, kilometers of gold mines dug in granite and a brook diverted across a steep mountainside for over a mile, thinking about Geoff Dyer’s quote from Raymond Williams: “Think it through as labour and see how long and systematic the exploitation and seizure must have been, to rear that many houses, on that scale.”
My source says that according to multiple sources, the mass shooting was ordered by Mikuláš Končinský, who was 22 at the time. According to a source that is less reliable according to a source that seems more reliable, the partisan leader M. K. denied the charge and claimed that the unarmed men were shot by other partisans, Veličko and Ľach.[1] According to deep google research, Končinský was 23 at the time and he was later decorated as a member of People’s Militias, a communist equivalent of Sturmabteilung (armed bad guys with power).
The rabbit holes, i.e. historical mines, got more and more confusing as I descended 300 vertical metres vertiginously at an angle of 40 degrees where the wormholes got labyrinthine (capillaries; bloodstream). The leads branched into other leads and some of the leads went against other leads and some of the leads were dead ends.
I felt the discoverer’s thrill.
My knowledge was suddenly so deep that I made my first-ever Wikipedia edit in an article on WWII War Crimes in Slovakia.
According to my research, the Magurka massacre on 27 October 1944 was one of the worst war crimes committed during World War II in today’s Slovakia. The death toll varies from 62 to 95. (Lidice: 340).
Chapter 1
The wind howled through the barren branches of the trees as Anton Prokein crouched in the hay, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. The bitter cold of the night seeped through the cracks in the stable walls, chilling him to the bone as he listened for any sign of the partisans who had just executed his companions.
Anton’s breath came in shallow gasps, his eyes darting around the dimly lit stable, searching for any means of escape. He had seen too much, heard too much, and now he knew that his own life hung in the balance, teetering on the edge of oblivion.
Then, as if summoned by his desperation, the partisans returned. Anton’s muscles tensed, every nerve in his body screaming at him to flee, but he remained rooted to the spot, hidden beneath the hay, waiting for the right moment to make his move.
The partisans moved with purpose, their harsh voices slicing through the silence like knives as they searched the stable for any survivors. Anton held his breath, willing himself to remain unseen, his heart hammering in his chest as they drew closer and closer.
And then, just as he feared all hope was lost, an opportunity presented itself. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, Anton sprang into action, launching himself at the unsuspecting partisans with a ferocity born of desperation.
His fists flew like lightning, striking out with a force he never knew he possessed as he fought tooth and nail for his survival. The partisans reeled from the unexpected attack, momentarily stunned by Anton’s fierce resistance.
With a burst of speed, Anton darted past them, his heart pounding in his ears as he raced towards freedom. Bullets whizzed past him, kicking up clouds of dirt as he ran, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed himself to the limit.
He didn’t stop running until he reached the cover of darkness, his chest heaving with exertion as he collapsed to the ground, his body trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and relief.
But even as he lay there, catching his breath in the cold embrace of the night, Anton knew that his ordeal was far from over. He still had a long journey ahead of him, fraught with danger at every turn.
Yet, as he looked up at the star-studded sky above, Anton felt a flicker of hope ignite within him. He had survived the horrors of the Low Tatras, against all odds, and now he was determined to make it home, no matter what obstacles lay in his path.
For in the darkness of that fateful night, Anton Prokein had proven that even in the face of unspeakable evil, the human spirit would always endure. And as long as there was breath in his body, he would never stop fighting for the chance to live another day.
Chapter 2
The end of World War II in Slovakia marked a tumultuous period characterized by chaos, violence, and the struggle for survival. As the tides of war shifted, communities across the country found themselves caught in the crossfire, facing untold hardships and atrocities at the hands of various factions vying for control.
One particularly harrowing chapter unfolded in the Carpathian Mountains, where ethnic German communities became ensnared in the maelstrom of conflict. Interned from Hauerland, these individuals were thrust into forced labor in Horehronie, tasked with tasks ranging from digging trenches to constructing makeshift airfields. But amidst the turmoil of war, tragedy lurked around every corner.
In October 1944, amidst the backdrop of a burgeoning uprising, a glimmer of hope emerged for some. Promised liberty, a group of internees embarked on a treacherous journey homeward, their path fraught with danger and uncertainty. Traversing the rugged terrain of the Low Tatras, they sought refuge in the promise of freedom, only to be met with betrayal and brutality.
At an abandoned stable, their dreams of liberation were shattered in an instant. Ambushed by an unknown unit of partisans, these sixty-two men met a grisly fate at the hands of their assailants. The echoes of gunfire reverberated through the mountains, serving as a grim reminder of the horrors of war and the fragility of life.
But the tragedy didn’t start there. In the eastern reaches of Hauerland, in villages like Kuneschhau, the specter of violence loomed large. Forced from their homes, men and boys between the ages of 16 and 60 were herded like cattle, subjected to indignities and deprivation before being conscripted into labor brigades. Their destination: the Hron valley, where they were coerced into building fortifications amid the chaos of war.
Yet, even as German forces scrambled to quell the rebellion, the guards vanished, leaving their captives to fend for themselves in a hostile landscape. Determined to reclaim their freedom, these kidnapped souls embarked on a perilous journey home, their path beset by danger at every turn.
Many perished along the way, their hopes extinguished by the harsh realities of war. Yet, amid the carnage and despair, stories of resilience and survival emerged. Anton Prokein, one of the fortunate few to evade the clutches of death, defied the odds, his bravery and tenacity a beacon of hope in a world consumed by darkness.
As the dust settled and the guns fell silent, Slovakia emerged from the crucible of war forever changed. The scars of conflict ran deep, leaving an indelible mark on the nation’s psyche. But amidst the rubble and ruins, the human spirit endured, a testament to the resilience of the human heart in the face of unimaginable adversity.
Chapter 3
The mountains around Magurka were a popular destination for partisans. One of the first resistance paratroopers landed around here.
The exact location of the massacre remains a mystery, although forest workers found dead bodies covered sloppily by spruce branches in the spring and the site was visited at least three times between 1986 and 2000 by the relatives of the dead. The makeshift cross was destroyed by an avalanche.
The slaughter-site has a certain pull.
My tentative-come-painstaking search for the barn using an orthophoto map from 1950, superimposed on the Mountain Rescue Service’s map of avalanche paths, showed that there were no barns near a forest in the avalanche zone. I identified two possible spots for the barn: at Magurka and at Kapustisko; however, there may have been a third barn because I suspect that those two barns would have been referred to in another way (the first is in the hamlet, the second next to a forester’s house, the third empty with a sleigh, probably for draught horses). I also assumed, reasonably, that a big barn in the open would be visible on the 1950 orthophoto map, and, based on the survivor’s account, I was looking for a barn on a steep slope with a small garden above a stream with big boulders. There is no such barn.
“It stinks,” said Lucia who loves detective stories.
Indeed, something was amiss.
So, returning to an earlier point, the partisans went to great lengths to shoot the “Germans” somewhere else.
One of the biggest avalanches in Slovak history, which could have destroyed the cross, fell in 1970 and its face was 22 m high and it did not melt in summer. However, I found no barn in the avalanche valley.
Allegedly, there are no records about this partisan operation.
Interestingly, the “small partisan group” was led by a very young man. The stupid young guns must have hated Germans. (Inappropriate note: And they deserved it.) Two armed partisans took 10–15 Germans at a time to a “nearby forest” and shot them.
Either my “far forest” theory is wrong or the word “near” means “far” or the witness is unreliable.
I wonder why the Germans didn’t run. I wonder why the second group didn’t run. I wonder about many things. Life — including death — is wonderful.
Of course, I don’t have time for this, but I have to hammer the rusty iron while hot.
I’m just a surface collector who cannot afford to follow veins deep into the mountain.
It was horrible and it happened nearby and it made me think about the imperfections of the human nature.
So I had to work as efficiently as possible so there was no time for redundancies like style because it was important and I had to write it down immediately because of the chain reaction spanning the spacetime from the pointless point to I don’t know where. So I e-mailed myself the morning notes from the mobile and got this.
You need contrast.
I have mentioned it earlier but, in fact, this is the earlier incarnation of the best point I have ever made about life in mountains. I have grown wary of facts very recently. However, the next note says that a great novel contains lots of data. And it predicts war. It’s not very hard to predict war so there you have it.
“Sometimes the problem with an essay can become its subject.”
I think he meant that rather than attempting to answer a question, or resolve it — somehow “get rid of it” so that it wasn’t getting in the way anymore — I could turn the question into the next occasion for rumination, narration, and reckoning, and that this wrestling could illuminate something that would have remained invisible otherwise.
Of course, there was no time for this.
Enter Mr. Carrot and Mrs. Parrot.
PARROT PECKS THROUGH THE PICKLE
In a quaint little town nestled between the rolling hills and the babbling brooks, there lived an extraordinary parrot named Mrs. Parrot. She was not your average birdbrain, oh no! Mrs. Parrot possessed a keen intellect and a penchant for solving mysteries, which often landed her in rather peculiar situations.
One sunny morning, as Mrs. Parrot was enjoying her morning tea and a small rodent, she received a distress call from her dear friend, Mr. Carrot. Well, perhaps “dear friend” was a bit of a stretch. Mr. Carrot was more of an acquaintance, a rather loud and obnoxious one at that. But Mrs. Parrot, being the gracious bird that she was, decided to investigate the matter nonetheless.
Upon arriving at Mr. Carrot’s humble abode, Mrs. Parrot was met with a most peculiar sight. There, lying on the kitchen floor, was Mr. Carrot, looking rather worse for wear and decidedly unappetizing. It appeared that Mr. Carrot had met an untimely demise, and foul play was suspected.
“Goodness gracious me!” squawked Mrs. Parrot, fluttering about the room in a flurry of feathers. “What in the name of chromatophoregenesis happened here?”
The other vegetables in the kitchen remained silent, which was rather typical of them. Mrs. Parrot was used to their stoic silence, but today, it only added to the mystery.
With a determined glint in her eye (well, as determined as a parrot’s eye can get), Mrs. Parrot set about her investigation. She questioned the suspects — a rather shifty-looking onion, a suspiciously smug tomato, and a potato who seemed to be suffering from a severe case of identity crisis.
After much squawking and flapping about, Mrs. Parrot finally pieced together the clues. It turned out that Mr. Carrot had been involved in a rather scandalous affair with Mrs. Onion, much to the chagrin of Mr. Onion. And when Mr. Onion found out about the affair, he flew into a rage and, well, let’s just say things got rather messy.
But Mrs. Parrot wasn’t one to judge. Instead, she calmly called the authorities and awaited their arrival, all the while regaling the other vegetables with tales of her daring adventures.
And so, dear reader, another mystery was solved thanks to the quick wit and sharp beak of Mrs. Parrot. As for Mr. Carrot, well, let’s just say he won’t be causing any more trouble in the vegetable patch. And Mrs. Parrot? Well, she flew off into the sunset, ready to tackle her next case with gusto and perhaps a few more small rodents for good measure.
Of course, there was no time for this.
Of course, there was no time for saying that there was no time for this.
Of course, there was no time for saying that there was no time for saying that there was no time for this.
Amidst the sweeping winds of change that swept through Kunešov with the birth of Czechoslovakia in 1918, modern times dawned upon its quaint streets and fields. Alongside the strides of progress, though yet faintly visible within the village, came the democratic ethos of the First Republic, ushering in new ideologies that stirred unrest and disrupted the established rhythms of life. Hitherto, the lives of the villagers had been profoundly influenced by religion and the annual cycle of church festivities and events. However, the aftermath of the First World War introduced communist ideals of equality and social justice to Kunešov, particularly embraced by war veterans and swiftly spreading among the miners of Handlová, where many from Kunešov labored. As the 1930s unfolded, nationalism gained momentum, gradually morphing into fascism and Nazism.
These extreme ideologies and the ensuing political practices found both proponents and adversaries, much like elsewhere in Slovakia, even in the quiet corners of Kunešov. However, the majority of its inhabitants refrained from entangling themselves in political strife, striving instead to navigate their daily lives and improve their material conditions within the confines of possibility. It could be said that until the 1930s, the people of Kunešov possessed only a faint and superficial awareness of their ‘otherness’. They were deeply rooted primarily in their native village and remained loyal citizens of the country they had inhabited for 600 years; until 1918, it was Hungary, then Czechoslovakia, and from March 1939, the First Slovak Republic. They did not markedly differ in their way of life from the surrounding populace, and the differing language in the predominantly Hungarian-speaking environment of Kremnica and Handlová played no significant role at the time.
When the Second World War erupted in the autumn of 1939, the villagers, drawing from their own experiences (vivid memories of the First World War still fresh), sensed that it would bring no good. Experience had taught them not to draw undue attention to themselves in such times but rather to hunker down and weather the storm. Soon, the adverse effects of the war manifested in the life of the Kunešov community; first in material scarcity, followed by the arrival of the first casualties of war. The Slovak National Uprising (hereinafter “SNP”) significantly impacted the life of the village. Right from the onset of the SNP, the village found itself within insurgent territory, and in the latter half of September, it was directly on the front lines (the insurgent army holding positions in the village, anticipating the German onslaught from Handlová).
In the face of these turbulent times, the resilience of the people of Kunešov was tested, their resolve forged in the crucible of adversity. They bore witness to the tumult of history, standing steadfast amidst the tempest, their spirits unbroken, their sense of community unwavering. Such was life in Kunešov, where the echoes of the past resonated with the hope for a brighter future, and the indomitable spirit of its inhabitants illuminated even the darkest hours.
Chapter 6: The Transport
As the early September sun rose over the sleepy village of Kunešov in 1944, the air crackled with tension. Local miners and supporters of communist ideals had formed a partisan group of around 30 members, swiftly seizing control of the village. Unease gripped the community as uncertainty loomed like a dark cloud overhead.
The leaders of the former municipal administration and the German party, Deutsche Partei, built on Nazi ideology, had been apprehended. On the 21st of September, a Thursday, just before dawn, drumming echoed through the streets and a decree of the insurgent authorities was announced: all men aged 16 to 60 were to assemble at 7 a.m. sharp in the market square near the fire station, armed with picks, shovels, and provisions for a day. The purpose of their assembly remained undisclosed, shrouded in ominous ambiguity.
Approximately 300 men from Kunešov, under the vigilant guard of partisans, marched to the railway station in Kremnica. They were joined by men from neighboring German villages, forming a somber procession bound for an unknown destination.
Arriving at the station, the men were directed into covered freight cars, fifty at a time. With a metallic clang, the heavy doors shut, sealing them within the dim confines of the carriages. The train rattled to life, pulling away from the platform, its destination shrouded in secrecy.
The orders for this mass mobilization originated from the heart of the Slovak National Uprising, headquartered in Banská Bystrica. The intent was twofold: to procure labor for the construction of defensive fortifications and to relocate able-bodied German men away from the frontline, deeper into the heartland of the insurgency.
It was clear that the insurgent authorities did not intend to physically harm these men; rather, they sought to remove them from the immediate theater of war. Yet, as the train chugged forward into the unknown, fear and uncertainty gripped the hearts of those aboard. What lay ahead remained a mystery, shrouded in the fog of war.
Chapter 7: The Return
Here’s the account of Johann Rückschloss, a direct participant in these events, who was then a 17-year-old resident of Kunešov.
“The following morning, we noticed that we had already passed through Banská Bystrica and were heading further into the Horehronie region. Around noon, the train halted in Hronec. We were led into a large empty factory hall, once used for the production of enamelware. With a small group, I managed to secure a separate room, likely a former office. In Hronec, approximately 800 German men from Hauerland (an area around Kremnica and Nemecké Pravno) were stationed. Sanitary facilities were lacking, and we relieved ourselves by the stream. We slept on bare ground. Those who had brought food with them acted wisely, as it wasn’t until Sunday, the fourth day of internment, that we received a loaf of bread for ten men and a ladle of soup.
After several days, another group of men arrived from Sklené, their faces still reflecting horror from a mass execution we gradually learned about (near the village of Sklené, 187 men — residents of the village — were shot by partisans during forced labor).”
The interned men from Hauerland, including those from Kunešov, were gradually deployed in smaller groups to work in the surrounding areas, primarily digging anti-tank trenches in the Hron Valley and constructing a field airstrip near Brezno. Some groups were transported further into the Horehronie region, near Polomka, for labor. Both the food and hygiene conditions remained dire; the men were malnourished and suffered from the cold, which began to set in with low temperatures, especially at night, already in October, and they lacked warmer clothing.
Once again, Johann Rückschloss:
“On Wednesday afternoon, October 25, 1944, while we were working, we heard machine gun fire from the east. In the evening, under the cover of darkness, the guards led us from the camp down into the valley to the railway station, where a passenger train awaited on the tracks. We were forbidden to speak aloud, and the guard announced that we could go home again. As dawn broke, the train reached Banská Bystrica. I couldn’t determine its length or the number of carriages. The train then continued towards Zvolen. It stopped before the Sliač station, and the guards allowed us to disembark and left. Here, we heard calls: ‘Where are the men from Kunešov? Mne from Dobšiná, come here! Men from Kopernica, join us!’ A long stream of exhausted figures set off towards Zvolen. The crowd divided into groups according to their villages, each striving to return home as quickly as possible.
Around midnight, we heard a voice from the darkness: ‘Halt! Are you returning Germans?’ We knew we were saved. German army soldiers led us to a barn, where straw was prepared for bedding. They gave us warm coffee and bread. We learned that we were in Ihráč, 8 kilometers from Kremnica. On the way to Kremnica, inhabitants of Slovak villages offered us bread. On Friday, October 27, 1944, we returned home to Kunešov. But not all of us!”
Chapter 8 — The Notes
Any subject is me. Any subject is me writing about that subject, i.e. me. I am the great distortionist. (I’m the con-text.)
The memorial. I live 5 minutes from a tragedy.
Grandson finds out that his grandad was present at the Magurka massacre. Alternating points of view. Not clear if German or partisan.
Something for Kundera or Dyer avatars to elaborate on: Immortalise the dead.
Why Massacres Breed Art
It may have something to do with forgetfulness. (And power.)
The buzz of the material and the issue of accuracy: I’d like to get everything right.
In the mountains, it’s enough to walk in the right direction to be happy.
Driving home I see a schoolgirl getting out of the house: what was I thinking?
People love extremes, even if it’s senseless violence.
They cut a cross into the priest’s back.
There comes a time in every man’s life when all he reads is military history.
Research: I err on the side of excess.
Geoff Dyer: “Again to talk about actuarial norms, it really is the case that as you get older you read less fiction. And then by the time you are my age, it’s really quite minimal the amount of fiction that one reads. As I’ve joked before, the next stage along that path is that you only read military history. I’m kind of looking forward to that. Generally, I’m not anti the novel. As you say, I have written them. What I am anti is this assumption that the novel is the only proving ground — that you are really more of a writer, as it were, if you are writing a novel. Really for me, there is no difference. It’s not like I really want to be a novelist and then there is other stuff I do in between novels, one subsidiary to another. In terms of fiction, the gap between what happens in life and what’s on the page is no greater or less, really, in the fiction than the nonfiction. Because some of it is made up in the nonfiction as well. It’s not like the books are depending for their interest on my having claimed to have some James Frey–like experience. It’s all pretty ordinary stuff. But I’m keen on this idea of — I guess I’d use the term the nonfiction work of art — being judged by all of the criteria used to judge novels.”
They often took victims to remote places to kill.
Why not kill them all on the spot? (It’s a mistake that every villain makes.)
Why the pull of the wild?
Finally I had a subject; however, I was ill-equipped to handle it; however, that was supposed to be my strength.
I was confused.
As I reflect on starting the fateful one-day great novel, I cannot help but use the phrases I cannot help but use. As a true addict, I looked up everything I could about barns and avalanches (an array of tabs receding into infinity) while working; and scratched out the last remains of powder from the weed crusher.
Chapter 9: The March
Let’s delve into the tragic events through the eyes of Anton Prokein, as recorded by Johann Rückschloss:
“Late afternoon on October 25, 1944, the guards informed the internees that they were free to go back to their villages. Anton Gürtler, the innkeeper and postman of Kunešov, proposed leading them from Podbrezová through the Low Tatras ridge to Ružomberok, the shortest route home. The men agreed, and thus, an unarmed group of civilians embarked on a march into the mountains. By the morning of October 27, 1944, a Friday, around ten o’clock, they took refuge in an empty stable to rest and hide from the partisans.
The stable likely served as a shelter for horses during timber transportation. But a dreadful fate awaited the men here. They fell into the hands of a small partisan group. The partisans locked them in the stable. In groups of two, armed partisans led them into the nearby forest. First, they had to surrender their watches, rings, and empty their pockets. Soon, the sound of machine gun fire echoed through the air.
By four o’clock, all were shot dead. After the massacre, two partisans returned to the stable and found Anton Prokein, who had hidden there. They pulled him from behind the sledges and debated what to do with him. He heard: ‘He needs to be shot!’ In desperation, he fought off both partisans with his fists, dashed through the open gate, then across a small garden, threw himself to the ground to avoid getting hit, and finally rolled down a steep slope. When he reached the stream bank, he realized they were still shooting at him.
He hid among the boulders, feeling safer there. He waited until dusk and then made his way down the valley alongside the stream. Anton Prokein reached a Slovak village (it’s uncertain which one exactly[2]), where a farmer took him in. To his great relief, he could speak some German. The refugee could finally eat and rest in warmth. The next morning, the farmer woke him, showed him the way to Ružomberok, and gave him bread for the journey. Before Ružomberok, Anton Prokein encountered a German patrol. They took him to the barracks, where they fed him, gave him a haircut, dressed him, and bought him a ticket for the train to Piargy/Kremnické Bane. In the Ružomberok barracks, he met Jozef Neuschl and František Ernek, who had also managed to escape. On All Saints’ Day, November 1, 1944, they arrived in Kunešov and had the solemn duty to inform the residents of the horrifying event they had been part of and witnessed.”
Chapter 10: The Testimony
Written testimony in this matter was also provided by the Roman Catholic priest Alois Drienko, born on March 4, 1923, in Kunešov (Mr. Drienko passed away on February 29, 2008, in Turčianske Teplice). His father, Alois Drienko Sr., born on May 9, 1888, was a shoemaker in Kunešov and was among the men shot in the Low Tatras. Alois Drienko Jr. was ordained as a priest on May 30, 1948, in Banská Bystrica by Bishop Andrej Škrábik. In the post-war period, he was prohibited from returning to his native village. His testimony, contained in letters dated November 16 and December 2, 2000, reads as follows:
“In 1943, I was admitted to study theology in Banská Bystrica. I spent the school holidays in 1944 at home with my parents and sisters (I have six sisters) in Kunešov. When I couldn’t return to the seminary in September due to the war events, I helped at home with agricultural work. On the night before the men were sent to fortification work (September 21, 1944), I, along with other young fellow citizens, held what we called a ‘firewatch.’ So my mother sent my father ‘to labor’ in my place the next day, and I was supposed to go the second time. But no one from the local partisans sent me anywhere afterward. When the soldiers came to the village, they also occupied my father’s shoemaking workshop, and I worked there with them as best as I could.
By the end of October 1944, when most of the men returned and especially when eyewitnesses of the massacre arrived, and my father did not return with them, we knew that a tragedy had occurred. Therefore, I set out on my bicycle one day to Vrútky and the next day to Hronská Dúbrava in hopes of meeting some ‘deserters’ from Kunešov. But in vain, I didn’t meet anyone. Various rumors spread, and there was great mourning in families in the village. It was impossible to reach the scene on the northern side of the Low Tatras because the German army guarded the mountain roads, and the mountains were occupied by partisans. So we had to wait for a more suitable moment.
In November 1944, I returned to the seminary in Banská Bystrica. I spent Christmas there, and we prepared for the arrival of the front, which was to bring ‘liberation’ from watches and from freedom. In January 1944, all German citizens of Kunešov were evacuated to the Czech lands. My family ended up in the town of Kaplice in southern Bohemia. In 1946, they had to move further to Bavaria. Finally, they settled near Stuttgart in Württemberg. My four sisters, widows, still live there today, and my mother also died there. When I administered the parish in Hronec, I couldn’t get precise information from the communists about where the deported Germans were located. Supposedly, it was in the pressroom. In 1964, I was the parish administrator in Tŕnie near Zvolen. I told my good neighbor Anton Zarevúcky, the parish administrator in Badín, about the tragedy at Magurka. Since he was from Nemecká Ľupča and had a forester acquaintance named Belopotocký there, he promised to take me there by car. Forester Belopotocký willingly showed us the location near Magurka, where according to his information, forestry workers found the remains of the murdered men. However, the place was devastated by an avalanche, which also swept away the cross that the workers erected for the unknown victims. I performed a quiet devotion in the church at Magurka and handed over a list with the names of the murdered to the local priest. Today, the access road is overgrown, the stream is not regulated; the site of the massacre is not marked even with a cross or a memorial plaque. No exhumation took place. I brought Germans from Kunešov to the scene of the crime twice. The first time was in 1986; the second time was in 1990 when I also celebrated Holy Mass in the local church. According to the information from forester Belopotocký, other smaller graves were found in this valley; however, no one could say who the dead were (from Spiš?).”
This concludes the testimony of Father Alois Drienko, son of one of the victims of the massacre at Magurka.
Chapter 11: Memorializing the Tragedy
The exact number of Kunešov residents shot at Magurka is established at 63, and thanks to our compatriots in Germany, the names of the victims are known. Their list is inscribed on a memorial plaque to the victims of World War II and related tragic events from the village of Kunešov, located in the side chapel of the Sacred Heart of Jesus in the church of St. Michael in Kunešov. They were all ordinary people, residents of the village of Kunešov, mostly miners in Handlová and small farmers; many were fathers of large families. A particularity of this tragic case is the fact that the victims were never exhumed and buried, and currently, it is practically unknown even the exact location where their bodily remains lie.
When on August 9, 2000 a local guide took us to the site where the Kunešov residents were supposed to have been massacred, we received several pieces of information from then still living witnesses from the village of Partizánska Ľupča. The bodies of the murdered were found by forestry workers in the spring of 1945 during woodcutting; they were only lightly covered with branches, already in decomposition, there was a strong smell, and the horses were scared. The forestry workers reported this horrific find to their superiors; however, due to the chaotic conditions at the time, no one wanted to get involved in this matter. The bodies of the dead remained at the original site; they were neither transported elsewhere nor buried there better. According to information from Father Drienko, a cross was erected at this location, which was later destroyed by an avalanche.
There is still very little information and knowledge about this tragic case of mass shooting of about 70 civilian persons, residents of the Slovak Republic and members of the German ethnic minority in Slovakia. Even official historiography of the Slovak National Uprising (SNP) continues to overlook this tragic event. It is not known what was the reason for such a mass execution of unarmed civilians, which, even considering the wartime conditions in Slovakia at that time, was something unusual, deviating from the framework of events that occurred during the SNP.
There are only two similar tragic events that occurred in September 1944 in Sklené, where 187 men from the village of Sklené were shot by partisans, and at the railway station in Banská Štiavnica, where 83 residents from the villages of Veľké Pole and Píla lost their lives; both of these tragic events are now relatively well-documented. It can only be speculated whether at Magurka, it was an individual action of a small group of armed individuals, whose main motive was to seize the personal property of others, or whether the shooting of these men was deliberated and decided at a certain level of command of insurgent units in the Magurka-Železné area.
At that time, there were relatively large groups of insurgents (partisans, soldiers) present, which had a certain organized form and established command structures. The activities of partisan and military insurgent units in the locality are very well mapped out, and there are many scholarly historical studies available, many of which contain detailed information about their activities. However, there is no mention of the massacre of civilian residents at Magurka. We do not want to engage in any historical research and analysis. We leave that to professional historians specializing in the period of the Slovak National Uprising.
After almost 78 years since this tragic event, the village of Kunešov, in cooperation with the Carpathian German Association in Slovakia and the Working Association of Kunešov Residents in Germany, decided to erect a modest memorial in the Magurka settlement near the location where this sad event occurred. The same memorial is built at the cemetery in the village of Kunešov. Let these memorials be a memento that every war always brings suffering and death to innocent people and that the deliberate spread of hostility and hatred among people on any basis is a crime.
[1] From 1944, Veličko was the commander of an 11-member organizational partisan group parachuted on the night of July 25 to 26, 1944, near Liptovská Osada (Lucia’s home village — I’m typing this footnote in her parents’ house because we use the local post office). It was the first group of Soviet partisans sent to Slovakia by the Ukrainian Staff of the Partisan Movement.
There is no Wikipedia evidence to suggest that Piotr Alexejevič Veličko was inclined to order or participate in mass shootings of civilians. His actions as a partisan leader and military officer appear to have focused on combatting Nazi forces and supporting resistance movements rather than targeting civilians indiscriminately. While he may have been involved in violence against enemy soldiers and infrastructure, there is no specific information indicating deliberate targeting of civilians. It’s important to rely on available Wikipedia evidence and avoid speculative assumptions about his behavior, particularly concerning serious and morally reprehensible actions like mass shootings of civilians. Without concrete evidence, it would be inappropriate to speculate on Veličko’s likelihood of engaging in such acts.
On the other hand, the fact that “combat” missions were mainly carried out by Commissioner A. Ľach and N. Surkov is attested not only by the memories of witnesses but also by the commissioner’s nickname “the gunslinger.” Jan Brezík, a member of Veličko’s paratrooper squad, expressed his opinion about him as follows: “Ľach, he was 19, I was 23, a young lad. He was terribly impulsive, he would shoot everything, he would just murder, murder, murder.”
[2] Researcher’s note: most likely Partizánska Ľupča
