Once upon a time, “early on a grey winter morning, three rusty single-decker buses pulled out of Warsaw. Like relics of the Soviet era, they trailed black smoke and foul diesel fumes as they headed east. In the first bus rode an Honorary Judge of the High Court of England, two Queen’s Counsel and their junior barrister, along with court stenographers and several officials from London’s Central Criminal Court — better known as the Old Bailey. The second bus carried the jury — eight men and four women — along with six court officials and two officers from the Metropolitan Police’s Jury Protection Unit, to ensure there was no contact between the jurors and the British press, who occupied the third bus. They were travelling not just to a country none of them knew; they were journeying into the past, to stand at the scene of crimes committed 57 years before. The accused, who had been living in Britain for more than 50 years, unrecognised and unsuspected, remained in London. His trial had been adjourned for the unprecedented visit of a British jury abroad.” (The Ticket Collector from Belarus, p. 1)
The Old Bailey (Central Criminal Court). It hears criminal cases of a serious or sensitive nature that attract wide public interest. London.
Once upon a time. That is how English fairy tales usually begin. The events that took place in Brest in February 1999 were no fairy tale — but for many, they seemed like something out of fiction. Not least for the British citizens themselves. Their arrival in Belarus was connected to the trial of Andrei Sawoniuk. Sawoniuk was the first — and only — person to be convicted on British soil under the War Crimes Act. This unprecedented case attracted extensive coverage in both the foreign and domestic press. In 2022, Mike Anderson and Neil Hanson published a book titled The Ticket Collector from Belarus. Following the international success of the first edition, a second print run was released in London in January 2023. Who Sawoniuk was, what crimes he committed, and how he was identified half a century after the war’s end can be read on the excellent website domachevo.com and at rubon-belarus.com. From a legal standpoint, the Sawoniuk case was also unique because, for the first time in the history of British justice, a jury travelled abroad to view the scene of the crime. Sawoniuk was defended by one of the finest Queen’s Counsel of the day, William Clegg. He was confident he had chosen the right and reliable line of defence — arguing that the jury could not deliver a fair verdict, as they had not seen the scene of the crime, and that getting to Domachevo, at the ends of the earth, would never be granted even if he petitioned for it, since no British jury had ever gone abroad. However, the War Crimes Act, passed back in 1991 — which had made it possible to bring charges for crimes committed by foreigners against foreigners on foreign soil — gave the presiding judge, Sir Humphrey Potts, the authority to make a unilateral decision to send the jury to Belarus. William Clegg had not anticipated this turn of events at all. In essence, it was his own words that prompted the judge to order the organisation of this enormously complex visit. Beyond the bureaucratic hurdles required to observe every degree of legal propriety, certain measures had to be taken within the delegation itself. To ensure an impartial trial, not a single member of the jury was Jewish; and at the request of both the defence and the prosecution, all jurors were required to confirm that none of their relatives had been victims of the Holocaust.
At the preliminary hearing on 21 December 1998, Judge Potts granted the defence counsel’s application for the jury to visit Domachevo, in what is now Belarus. The defendant does not attend. The planned itinerary for the jury’s visit. (Photo from the book “The Ticket Collector from Belarus”)
The numerous representatives of the British press were strictly forbidden not only from speaking to the jurors, but from coming within 40 paces of them. To enforce this rule, the jurors were accompanied everywhere by court officers dressed in conspicuously bright yellow vests. Until the final verdict was delivered, British journalists were prohibited from publishing or distributing any information relating to the investigation. The journey was gruelling — both morally and physically — from the very moment they reached the border: “The snow-covered landscape through which they were travelling was flat and marshy, broken only by birch forests and small, impoverished villages. The hundred-mile journey took four hours, and was frequently slowed to a crawl by sudden snowdrifts whipped up by a biting east wind. As they approached the Belarusian border, where surly guards routinely held up travellers for hours or even days, they saw a queue stretching back for several kilometres. An enterprising vendor had set up a roadside stall selling hot soup to drivers waiting in line. Several equally enterprising prostitutes, wearing miniskirts and low-cut tops despite the bitter cold, could be seen climbing into the cabs of some of the lorries. Everyone understood that they were bribing the border guards to delay the document checks for as long as possible, giving the prostitutes time to service the bored drivers. Thanks to the local chief of police, acting as ‘facilitator’, the convoy swept past the queue and pulled straight to the front. The police chief distributed packets of Western cigarettes to the guards and customs officers. Documents had to be checked and stamped at every stage of the process. By the time the buses cleared the final hurdle, a dozen stamps had been added to the forms. After a delay of just 65 minutes, the convoy crossed the border. Despite this, one reporter still remarked cynically that it had taken them longer to cross the border than it had taken the German army in 1941.” (The Ticket Collector from Belarus, p. 2) And then came the accommodation — at the Intourist, the finest hotel in Brest. “The night before, the British delegation had stayed in a relatively luxurious four-star hotel in Warsaw, but on their first night in Belarus they had to make do with the considerably less comfortable Hotel Intourist in Brest-Litovsk. As The Times described it: ‘a hostel radiating all the charm of a tax office.’ Rumours had circulated that emergency renovations had been carried out before the English arrived, but no evidence of this was visible in the spartan, cold interior. Some rooms had broken windows; none of the washbasins had plugs*, and when guests ran out of toilet paper, they were required to bring the empty cardboard tube to the front desk before a new roll would be issued. (* The English are accustomed to washing by filling the basin and stopping the drain with a plug — a translator’s note.)
Hotel Intourist, Brest, 1990s. (Photo from the archive of I. Chaichits)
Scotland Yard’s War Crimes Unit detectives had already made several trips to Belarus to interview potential witnesses and had learned to bring their own food, portable heaters, and even tape to seal the gaps in the windows — but the jurors and court officials had not been warned of any of this, and had no choice but to endure the cold and other hardships. As in Soviet times, each floor of the hotel was presided over by an elderly woman seated on a chair opposite the clanking lift, monitoring the comings and goings of guests. The telephones in the rooms emitted strange clicks and crackles, suggesting they were bugged. Prostitutes patrolled the hotel corridors, knocked on bedroom doors, and solicited guests in the bar — which, it should be said, the British press had rapidly drunk dry. The hotel restaurant menu promised an impressive array of dishes, but every attempt to order anything was met with the waiter’s cry of “Nyet!” “Nyet!” “Nyet!” It turned out there was nothing available except boiled chicken.
The lobby of Hotel Intourist, 1990s. Brest. (Photo from the archive of Ivan Chaichits)
One of the Englishmen resigned himself to the inevitable and ordered the boiled chicken.
“I’ll have the same,” said his companion.
“Nyet!” — the waiter pointed to the man who had ordered first — “That is already his chicken.”
Fortunately, a curry house happened to be nearby (the India restaurant — translator’s note). When its owner was asked how he had ended up in such an unlikely place, he explained that he had bought the establishment sight unseen before leaving India, in the firm belief that he was acquiring a restaurant in a city called Brest located in France. He only discovered his mistake when the sale documents arrived in the post. Unable to get his money back, he had no choice but to come to Brest-Litovsk, and had been running one of Belarus’s very few Indian restaurants ever since. The food was good, and the prices so low that, to the considerable dismay of the British journalists, it was impossible to spend more than two or three pounds on dinner. When the bills arrived, the group’s senior official declared: “No, no, no! This simply won’t do.” He then asked the restaurant owner for a receipt book and wrote himself and his colleagues considerably more acceptable bills for expense-claim purposes.” (The Ticket Collector from Belarus, pp. 2–3)
The India restaurant, 1990s. (Now “Jules Verne.”) Photo from the archive of N. Alexandrov.
The British party returned to the India restaurant after coming back from Domachevo as well. This time their visit to the curry house was an act of gratitude to the local chief of police for his assistance in “clearing the obstacles.” The representatives of British justice ordered a couple of bottles of wine, which plunged their guest into deep gloom. Only when barrister Clegg asked whether the guest might prefer vodka did the police chief’s face light up with happiness. He drank the entire bottle with great relish — and then got behind the wheel of his car and drove the British contingent back to the hotel. But that came later. For now, they had a night at the Intourist ahead of them, before setting off the next day for the scene of Andrei Sawoniuk’s crimes — while Sawoniuk himself awaited the verdict under house arrest in his London flat. “Next morning at ten o’clock, after a near-inedible complimentary breakfast — the coffee had to be ordered separately at additional cost — the convoy set off again to cover the last rough and potholed stretch of the route. A police escort of rusty dark-blue Ladas led the way with flashing lights and wailing sirens, while the remaining traffic was halted by a large number of policemen who saluted the passing convoy.” (The Ticket Collector from Belarus, p. 4) The trip to Domachevo clearly made a powerful impression on the jury and had its effect. Judge Humphrey Potts, leading the delegation, did everything in his power to walk through the very places where Andrei Sawoniuk had left his bloody mark 57 years before. After all they had seen and heard, not a shadow of doubt remained in anyone’s mind about the guilt of “the butcher of Domachevo.” The British party stayed in Domachevo until nearly evening, then returned to Brest.
Sir Humphrey Potts (1931–2012). The presiding judge at the Sawoniuk trial.
The following morning, before departing for Warsaw, the jurors asked to be allowed to visit the GUM department store. It turned out to be a dim and poorly maintained space, though they did manage to find some charming and original souvenirs. In the electrical goods section, the jurors encountered — as they described it — “an antique toaster” standing in solitary splendour, and an equally solitary sales assistant who was watching a football match on a small television screen and making every effort not to catch the eye of any potential customer.
GUM department store, Brest, 1980s. The British, being devoted tea-drinkers, were not fortunate enough, by the 1990s, to find such an abundance of teapots on the shelves of Brest’s main shopping emporium.
Then the British got back on their buses and headed home.
The trial took place in March 1999. Throughout the proceedings, Sawoniuk — in his distinctive mixture of Cockney and Polish — insisted that he had never shot anyone and was innocent of all charges. The witness testimonies, the documents uncovered, and the visit to Domachevo made it possible for the British jury to deliver the only possible verdict: guilty. Sawoniuk was sentenced to two life terms. In 2000 he sought leave to appeal, but the House of Lords issued a categorical ruling: denied. Sawoniuk died of natural causes in Norwich Prison at the age of 84. Once upon a time…..