The small village of Rozhkovka, nestled in the heart of Belovezhskaya Pushcha, is surrounded on both sides by dense forest. At the edge of the village, along the road, stands a blue wooden church dedicated to the Rozhkovka Icon of the Mother of God. A stone-paved street runs the length of the village, leading to the church — a path which, in 1942, witnessed a grim procession as the German soldiers led the villagers to their execution for aiding partisans. Yet, through a miraculous intervention, everyone was spared.
Today, only a few elderly residents remain in Rozhkovka, some of whom still recall those days, marked by tragedy and an astounding miracle.
Priest Igor Perkovsky — rector of the Church of the Rozhkovka Icon of the Mother of God
Father Igor Perkovsky, the priest of the Rozhkovka church, kindly opened the church for our visit. Born in a nearby village, he has been serving here for 12 years.
The church remains closed during the week, with services held every two weeks. Beside it lies a cemetery, an abandoned post office, and a former school. Only a few elderly villagers now call Rozhkovka home. Shielded by the towering pines of Belovezhskaya Pushcha, the village is steeped in a stillness and peace that seems untouched by time, allowing the events of 80 years ago to surface with startling clarity.
“It was one of the largest punitive operations in Belarus,” Father Igor explains, unlocking the door to the bright, wooden-scented church. “On the morning of 28 September 1942, all the villagers of Rozhkovka were brought to a firing pit, and the death sentence was pronounced. The village had been sheltering Soviet parachutists who had killed several Nazi soldiers. To set an example, the Germans decided to execute the entire village.”
“Behind the village, there was a field, and beyond that, an airfield,” Father Igor continues. “At the time, a German officer, Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann, was flying over Rozhkovka in a light aircraft. Upon landing, he managed to persuade the commander of the punitive detachment to delay the execution, pleading in the name of the Virgin Mary. Neumann then flew to the headquarters to speak with Major Emil Herbst, known for his merciful treatment of civilians in the occupied territories. When Herbst learned of the planned mass execution, he not only took responsibility for cancelling it but also insisted on personally flying to Rozhkovka to oversee the pardon.
“So, the plane returned with two German officers — Neumann and Herbst. The execution was postponed ‘until further notice,’ and the villagers were sent home.”
The story has been passed down through generations, though the details have become somewhat blurred. According to local accounts, the German Lutheran pilot saw a vision of the Madonna and Child in the sky near the plane, instructing him to stop the execution and save the innocent lives.
Priest Igor Perkovsky
Father Igor shows us a document from the German archives, now translated into Russian. “We found this report and had it translated,” he says, holding up a blue sheet of paper before reading aloud:
‘The following was intended. The village of Rozhkovka will be evacuated, all children 12 years and younger will be placed in nearby settlements. Girls aged 12 to 22 and boys aged 12 to 17 will be sent to Germany for labour. All other inhabitants of the village will be shot.
The 24 people of the village were not present. The pit was already prepared.
Of the 632 inhabitants, 264 were to be shot on the spot.’
In the “Memory” book of Kamyanets district, Maria Protasiewicz, a resident of Rozhkovka, recalls: “We began to cross ourselves, whispering prayers, imagining that we were already dead. We had no hope that anyone would be spared from death. About four hours later, an aeroplane landed near the field. After it took off again, we were left confused. Someone continued praying, asking God for help. The executioners kept checking their watches... They were waiting for the plane to return, ready to begin the massacre. Then, from the direction of the forest, we heard a rumbling sound again. An officer emerged from the plane, waving a piece of paper.
“We were all gathered around a large pit. The Germans ordered us to kneel in a semicircle. At the other end, they had prepared four machine guns. In the presence of a German officer, one of the executioners explained the situation: ‘This time we will not shoot you, but see this pit. If you continue communicating with the partisans, you will lie in it. We will bring your children back. Continue building the church.’ For a long time, we couldn’t believe we had survived.”
Church of the Rozhkovka Icon of the Mother of God, Rozhkovka village, Kamenets district, Brest region.
Following this miraculous event, in the winter of 1943, the grateful villagers completed the construction of the church, which had been started before the incident. When the Germans destroyed the nearby village of Beloye, including its church of the Kazan Icon of the Mother of God, the newly built church in Rozhkovka initially bore the same name.
German officer Emil Herbst attended the opening of the church and soon returned with a special gift: an icon of the Mother of God, crafted by a German soldier who had been hospitalised in Belaya Vezha. This image is now known as the Rozhkovka Icon.
“Perhaps the soldier who had the vision of the Theotokos described it to the icon maker,” Father Igor reflects.
The icon was a bas-relief, carved from a single piece of wood, with the date of the miraculous rescue inscribed at the bottom: “28.09.1942.” Herbst personally brought the icon to the church. In gratitude, the villagers gifted him a set of handmade towels.
An image of the Mother of God presented to the church by German officer Herbst.
“When the time came for the Nuremberg trials, Emil Herbst was released and allowed to return home,” Father Igor continues. “Despite being an aviation major, he did not serve prison time. He lived to an old age and died peacefully, leaving behind two sons and a daughter. The Mother of God spared both his life and the lives of his family.”
The image of the Saviouress of Rozhkovka made by icon painters from St. Petersburg.
In 2008, Archbishop John (Khoma) consecrated the church in honour of the Rozhkovka Icon of the Mother of God. Icon painters from the Alexander Nevsky Lavra in St. Petersburg created a canonical image based on the wooden icon presented by the German officer. The image was painted on a board made from a pine tree that had grown on the grave of the Venerable Seraphim of Vyritsa.
Father Igor continues, unfolding a large poster with images of the villagers, the church, and scenes from daily life:
“The villagers here have always been devout, very close-knit, and lived as one family. Today, the parish consists of 80 people from several surrounding villages. We hold services every Sunday, and the church is always well attended.
Two years ago, the youngest member of our church choir celebrated her 80th birthday. Even though all the villagers are over 80, there’s always someone coming to the services, and the life of the parish goes on.”
He points to a photograph of an elderly woman on the poster.
“This is Olga Ivanovna. Her parents were among those led to be shot that day. They had two children — one boy aged seven and a girl who was two. Olga’s mother was pregnant with her at the time. The children were taken away; the boy was crying, and the little girl clung to her mother’s neck, refusing to let go. A German soldier ran up, grabbed the girl by her leg, and threw her onto a wagon. The mother fainted, and when she regained consciousness, the German let her go. She gave birth to Olga that very day.
“When the church was being built, Priest Thomas Kliuka served here.” Father Igor gestures to another part of the poster. “We can only see his hand in the photo. When the Germans retreated, the priests, knowing they would be executed by the Soviet authorities, fled with their families. Thomas Kliuka went to Warsaw but found he couldn’t live far from home. He returned to Rozhkovka, where he reestablished church life. Later, he was arrested and sentenced to nine years in a prison camp.
“I believe he returned because of the miracle. I think it gave him the courage to come back.”
Father Igor pauses, reflecting on the personal nature of these memories.
“When there were more people alive who had stood at the firing pit, each person I spoke to had their own way of describing that day.”
He shares another story passed down by a local woman:
“At that time, there was no church in Rozhkovka. The nearest one was in the village of Beloye. In August 1941, the Germans evicted all the villagers from Beloye and set fire to the village and the church. The people of Rozhkovka were working in the fields when they saw the church burning. They dropped their tools and ran to help, but it was too late to save the building. Police officers were there, trying to stop them, but the villagers went inside the burning church anyway.
“One of them, Olga Drachuk, along with a few other women, rescued the royal doors, icons, antimension, and liturgical vessels, allowing the Divine Liturgy to still be performed. They safeguarded these items in their homes, and when the new church was built in 1943, they were used again. In essence, they risked their lives, going into the fire for God. Perhaps that’s why the Lord and the Mother of God saved them from being shot.
“When I heard this story, I realized that, for me, this is the answer to why the miracle happened here. But I think each person finds their own answer.”
“Is this miracle well-known in Belarus?” I ask Father Igor.
“Surprisingly, very few people in Belarus know about the remarkable events that took place here. Aleksandra Onischuk, one of the locals, lives just 18 kilometres from Rozhkovka. Yet she first heard about the village’s miraculous story not from locals or Belarusians, but from a young Russian family who had never even been to the area.
“In Norway, there is a small town called Kirkenes. When the parishioners of the Church of St Tryphon of Pechenga heard about the miracle, they printed images of the Rozhkovka icon and shared them among the community. There was a young girl there with leukaemia who prayed before this icon. Soon after, her parents took her for tests, and everything came back normal. Imagine the distance between Kirkenes and Rozhkovka…
“Another time, a classmate of mine visited the church. Her son was facing health issues, but after praying in front of this icon, his condition began to improve. These are just a few stories that come to mind, but there are many more. Isn’t it a miracle when a family stays together and continues on its journey? In our times, that alone is a true miracle. Thanks to the intercession of the Mother of God, many families have been preserved.”
Now, in November, the village is silent. Not a soul is in sight. A scarecrow rustles softly in one of the yards, while roosters crow and dogs bark somewhere in the distance. Next to a few empty mailboxes, a timetable for the arrival of a mobile shop hangs on a pole. It’s hard to imagine that this place was once full of life. Now, only a couple of people remain in the village through winter, and there are no young families left at all.
We walk away from the church along the paved village road. This area was part of Poland until 1939, and the paving stones were laid by the Poles. These stones still bear the footprints of the 264 villagers who were led to their execution in 1942.
Paving stones in Rozhkovka
“That’s how they were led through the village to the execution pit,” says Father Igor. “The pit was 25 metres long and 2.5 metres deep. They say that when the villagers stood by the pit, they didn’t cry or shout — they prayed. The pit remained uncovered for a long time. Up until the 1970s, there was a hill where it had been. Later, it was removed, and silage pits were dug nearby.”
A memorial cross at the site of the failed execution of the inhabitants of Rozhkovka
By the 80th anniversary of the apparition of the Mother of God, the local executive committee worked to beautify the memorial site. They brought sand, gravel, and crushed stone; installed steps; and planted grass, flowers, and young trees.
“The administration did all the beautification work by hand in just one day,” continues Father Igor. “The erection of the cross was a communal effort, just like the Divine Liturgy.”
Previously, there had been a cross enclosed by a wooden fence, placed there by local residents. It was from the dome of the burned-down church in the neighbouring village of Beloye, whose holy relics were courageously rescued from the flames by the people of Rozhkovka. This old cross was incorporated into the design of a new, larger cross, painted gold, uniting the past and present into one whole.
As we arrived at the site, the sun peeked out from behind the thick November clouds, heavy as a grandmother’s featherbed. Bathed in sunlight, the gold cross gleamed even brighter, as though glowing from within.
“I truly believe Rozhkovka is a special place,” Father Igor admits. “Life here is peaceful and good. When I first came to serve, it felt as if I had gone back 30 years.”
And why is that? “Because the people here are genuine. They speak their minds. At first, they may be cautious, but once they get to know you, they welcome you as family.
“You know, older people sometimes quarrel, get angry, or shout at each other, but here, there’s none of that. They’re calm, pure, and wholesome. There’s no gossip, no unnecessary chatter, no fuss, and no tension. They hold on to each other, care for one another. Being around them is like being with your grandmother in your childhood.”
Father Igor goes on to say, “I’ve learned a lot from them — how to be calm, and how to live simply, appreciating life’s simple pleasures. They don’t strive to accumulate possessions or worry about their well-being. They don’t complain about not having enough or about misfortunes. They pray to God, give thanks, and live lives that are both meaningful and fruitful. There’s an elderly woman here with 13 or 14 great-grandchildren.”
Lidia Vladimirovna, a native Rozhkovka resident
We pass by a yellow house with a neat yard. Chickens wander behind a wire fence, and apples sit in baskets on a bench. An old woman steps out, wearing a jacket, rubber boots, and a headscarf. She’s off to feed the chickens — this is Lydia Vladimirovna, or Baba Lida, as she's known around here. She’s 80 years old.
“My parents told me how the Nazis led ‘em to the execution pit,” she begins, her voice steady with memory. “They came early that morning, roundin’ people up to dig a big hole. Said they were gonna shoot ‘em, ‘cause someone snitched that they were feedin’ the partisans. The men were diggin’, mutterin’ that they were likely diggin’ their own graves. I was just a babe, eight months old, and my sister, she was three. Ma took us to the church that was still being built, sat us down there, and off they went with Pa, to that trench. That’s what they told us later.”
Inside Lydia Vladimirovna’s house, a stove hums with warmth. Potatoes bubble away on the gas cooker. At 80, she still raises chickens and pigs. She rises at 6 a.m., lights the stove, and boils potatoes for her animals.
“I married a local fella,” she recalls with a chuckle. “We built this house together. I was young, just finished seven grades of school when we got hitched. He came back from the army, took a fancy to me (laughs), and I agreed. Did I like him? Well, he was nice (laughs), and I never regretted it. He loved me.”
Lydia spent her working life as a milkmaid, finishing school with seven grades under her belt. Her husband passed away 12 years ago, and her daughter lives in the city. But Lydia remains in the village, living alone.
“I was a milkmaid from ‘59 to 2002. Worked hard, I did, and now I got a good pension for it,” she says proudly. “I’ve got everything I need, but I still can’t live without keepin’ the farm. I just can’t!”
I ask her if it’s hard living alone.
“Well, sure it’s hard,” she admits. “But I’m used to workin’, and that keeps me goin’.”
“Ever think about movin’ to the city?”
She shakes her head. “No! I couldn’t live there. I can’t. No way,” she repeats, pausing between words for emphasis. “Maybe a day or two, but then that’s it. I’m just drawn to the village, y’know? (laughs) I like diggin’ in the dirt.”
She tells me how her neighbor, who lives just across the road, comes by in winter. “She’s three years older than me. We sit together, have a chat. In the evenings, I read a book. My daughter brings me newspapers from Brest, and I read those too. No, I’m never bored. I had a place in town, y’know, and my grandkids wanted me to go live with ‘em, but I didn’t want that. I’d just be a burden. Here, I can cook for myself, do my own laundry. What more do I need? I keep busy, and maybe that’s why I’ve lived this long.”
Tomorrow is the feast of the Mother of God of Kazan, and Lydia Vladimirovna is planning to go to church.
Gerasim Vladimirovich, a native resident of the village
We make our way to another yellow house, this one near the church. Old Gerasim is out front, pushing a wheelbarrow full of freshly picked apples. His stern, watchful eyes size us up, and he asks us who we are, where we’re from, and what we’re doing here. He checks us out like a real partisan. Once we pass his “test,” he invites us to sit on a bench by the house.
“Well, sit down then... I’ve been around since 1935. You count how old I am.”
He doesn’t wait for us to reply, continuing his tale.
“In ‘42, real early in the morning, it was still dark, the town mayor came around. He needed a couple of men and some shovels. He sent ‘em to dig a hole. The men figured they were gonna be shot. They took a bottle of vodka and a piece of bread with ‘em. Then the German soldiers arrived. The men dug the hole, drank a bit, and one of ‘em said, ‘We’ll give our souls to God, but we’ll show the fascists the finger!’”
He pauses, eyes lost in memory, then resumes.
“They’d already driven the cattle out of the village by then, over to the other side. Then they told us to unload all our things onto wagons, lining ‘em up in the same order as the houses stood. They lined up the women and men too. About 15 people, including my father, were hiding. Pa pulled me out of the crowd and took me to the other side of the village, where there was a barn with hay. The men were hiding there. Beyond the barn was a swamp, then an alder forest, and then water. Partisans were by the water. The Germans were patrolling between the alder trees and the barn. And then I cried. The men clapped their hands over my mouth. The Germans heard me, but they didn’t pay attention and kept walking. After that, the men told Pa to let me go so I wouldn’t give them away. He took me to the corner and let me run back to Ma.”
He glances up, reflecting for a moment, then continues.
“They were taking young people to Germany at that time. Kids born between ‘30 and ‘35 were sent to Dmitrovichi village. They put white armbands on us so they could identify us. When they released the villagers, everyone went to Dmitrovichi to find their kids. They didn’t find me right away — no one had registered us, and we couldn’t even say our last names. We spent a night in the village of Chernaki, and then Pa asked around and found me. That’s how it was.”
Gerasim leans back on the bench, his eyes wandering around the yard.
“I’ve lived here all my life. In ‘57, I built this hut and then went off to the army. Served in Dnepropetrovsk. When I came back, I got married. My bride was from a village three kilometers away. I’d been around, but I’d never seen her before. Maybe she was hiding,” he laughs. “After the army, I worked at the school, stoking the furnace. We had elections, and she came to the school. We stood like this, maybe like you and me now, and that was it. Quick, huh? She was my destiny. We were married 59 years — just one short of 60. That’s how our fate turned out.”
Gerasim’s daughter is visiting him today. She tells us that he worked on the farm, and his wife was the head housekeeper. In the last 16 years of her life, she was bedridden after a stroke. Gramps took care of her, cooking, cleaning, and managing their large household. She passed away in May, and he took it hard. It was his chores, the work around the house, that helped pull him out of his grief. He still tends chickens and plants a vegetable garden.
The yard is full of old apple trees — trees Gerasim planted when he first built the house. Before we leave, he fills a large bag with apples and grapes for us to take on the road.
As I look at these humble people who have lived their lives honestly, with integrity and honour, I can’t help but wonder: perhaps the true miracle of this village lies in its people? In the apple trees they’ve planted, the homes they’ve built, the children they’ve raised, their deep respect for the past, and the love they have for one another and for God. Perhaps when you go about creating small miracles every day, without even realising it, God chooses to perform a greater miracle... just like He did here, in the distant days of 1942.
Written by Olga Demidyuk
Photos by Tatiana Shidlovskaya-Vashkevich
