They say that the apple falls close to the apple tree, that the character of the child is shaped by the parents, and the disposition is provided by genes. This can only be assessed after years, when the perspective is bigger and wider horizon. When I look back and start to remember my parents, I see a lot of similarities. Is it only a sentiment, longing, or an unconscious need to look for them, I still do not know. One thing is certain, however, that I have inherited my passion for hunting from my father and I was condemned to it. In the end, hunting, the male domain, is the activity that man has been dealing with since the beginning of his existence.
My father had been a hunter for years, so the subject of hunting in my home was an everyday reality. Already in preschool I had my shotgun for traffic jams (such as from bottles) and together we arranged for our backyard hunts. As my father grew up, he started taking me with him. These were usually individual trips, mainly to birds. They had their good sides because they usually ended when I was "falling" from fatigue. It was only from the 5th to the 6th grade, when I got a little bit tired, I was allowed to walk in the raid. They were hare hunting, in the fields. Unfortunately, the hunting club, whose member was the father, and later also me, did not have its own forest circuit.
It was the beginning of the 60s of the last century. On the so-called "Recovered Territories", new residents, mostly displaced people from the lost Eastern Borderlands, presented the whole cross-section of characters and individuality. It was the same with the hunters. Some of them hunted before the war, a few began to hunt during the war, staying in Siberian "resorts". The rest began their hunting adventure after the war. Some, through unbelievable, but true stories, also due to very original customs, vocabulary and border accent became among the brothers hunting legendary characters, and their exploits mentioned to this day.
During hare hunts, during the breaks in the raids, various stories were mentioned, and I, young and naive with interest, listened to breathless breaths, not realizing the enormity of the hunting booty. Some of these stories I would like to quote here, save in my memory and save. The oldest of them, told by my father, is a story from the 1950s, about hunting wolves in the Sudeten mountains, near the Sowie Mountains, where we lived then.
And it was this way: - The Office of Public Security called on all the hunters from the poviat to take the obligatory participation in the raid on the pack of wolves, which passed from Czechoslovakia to Poland and caused large losses in farm animals. The absence was to be punished by the withdrawal of the gun permit. Faced with such dictum, hunters from the area began to get ready for hunting, which were planned in two days.
In those times ammunition was the biggest problem. Some had some captured German stocks, others were doomed to their own resourcefulness and imagination. The supply of dust and pellets did not satisfy the demand, so various "inventions" were used. Attempts were made to grind powder with artillery ammunition, and shots and shells for shotguns ("breneki") were hand-made from molten lead from water pipes and accumulators. Weapons of threaded barrels in the hands of a civilian were rare. This time, for wolves, "breneki" or "lofts" were needed, i.e. a very thick shot. Apparently, my father and his colleague have produced a fairly large supply, as the wolves were to be very much.
The collection before the hunt was planned in the yard of the district police headquarters, from where they were to be transported by militia. Frightened by the threat of losing a gun permit, all the hunters from the poviat were additionally excited about the unusual task. They were set in several separate, widely spaced rows. After a while, a civilian came out of the building, accompanied by a militiaman, and they both began to walk along the ranks, looking carefully at the gathered people. They stopped at one and the civilian pointed at him. And it was after the wolves hunting.
It turned out that someone had shot a foal in the pasture a few days earlier. The owner saw a hunter with a gun the day before, but he did not know him.
He reported it to the militia, and the militia, to save their work, called on local hunters for confrontation, under the guise of hunting wolves, and thus found the guilty without any problems.