Hannah Podob Memoir 
80-05 165th Street Krak?w, Poland 1910-1946 
Hillcrest, NY 11432-1207 
Home phone: 718-380-0323 
Work phone: 212-538-2167 




THE SKY IN ONE PIECE 

This book is dedicated to the memory of my mother and father, Helen and David Simco, to pay tribute to their boundless love and courage. 

My profound thanks to Patricia Gitt who encouraged me from the very beginning. To Lou Willett Stanek who developed my capacity and very patiently guided me through the process. I am deeply grateful to Barbara Cyran who gave her time, invaluable advice and inspiration so generously. I am also indebted to Patricia Baronowski, Kathleen Gonzalez and Marianne Farrin for their support and motivation. 

A special thanks to Don McCauley, author of The Gates of Heaven: The Development of the Christian Church and its impact on World Society. His critique and advice were invaluable. 



I'm especially thankful to my husband, Albert, and our sons, Stuart and Roger for listening, helping and refueling me at the end of each day. 

To the historians who doubt the holocaust really happened, I say, "call me." 



Gone now are those little towns where the 
shoemaker was a poet 
The watchmaker a philosopher, the barber a 
troubadour. 
Gone now are those little towns where 
the wind joined 
Biblical songs with Polish tunes and Slavic rue, 
Where old Jews in orchards in the shade of cherry trees 
Lamented for the holy walls of Jerusalem. 
Gone now are those little towns, though the 
poetic mists, 
The moons, winds, ponds and stars above them 
Have recorded in the blood of centuries the tragic tales, 
The histories of the two saddest nations on earth. 

Antoni Slonimski 
Polish poet, writer and human rights activist of Jewish descent (1893 - 1985) 





Chapter One 

It was an unusually cold day for the fourth week of November 1946. A light rain was falling but driven by the strong wind, it felt like sharp needles hitting your face. People walked quickly to the social center of the Displaced Persons Camp in Landsberg, Germany, their bodies bent against the elements. 

My excitement could not be dampened by the harsh weather. I was one of the children selected to audition for a part in the Chanukah play that was to be performed on the evening of December 17th in the main auditorium. 
"I hope I get chosen for a good part." I told my mother. "Wish me luck." I said as I scooted out of our small room, the door slamming behind me. My heart pounded with anticipation as I ran toward the Center's auditorium. Waiting in line for my turn to test for a part, I listened to the other kids read their lines. I was sure I could do as well as them but just to make sure, I was determined to put a lot more feeling into the lines I read. The older boys were given one script to read and the older girls were given another script. The parts for the candles would go to the youngest children who could not have speaking parts but whom the teachers wanted to include in the play. At last it was my turn. I went up on stage, swallowed several times to calm myself and began to read. 
"Please say your lines again but louder this time - we can't hear you," the man sitting in the fifth row of the auditorium said. 
I started over, practically screaming the lines. Half way through my audition I saw the man turn in frustration to the teacher and shake his head. I stopped then, tears stinging my eyes as I tried desperately to blink them away. The teacher came forward and took me aside. 
"Maybe the part of a Chanukah candle would be better for you," she said. "You wouldn't have to strain your voice so much." 

After lunch we gathered in the auditorium as the parts for the play were assigned. Moeshe Stein, a tall, lanky boy, was given the part as one of the Maccabees. Avruhm Hersch, a chubby kid, would play the role of Antiochues, the Syrian king. Deborah Rubinstein was given the part of the center candle. It would be her job to light the other eight. I was the eighth candle. I couldn't hide my disappointment. My teacher came over to me and wrapped her arm around my shoulder. 
"There'll be other plays and when your voice is stronger I'm sure you'll get a wonderful speaking part. You did very well this morning, it's just that the audience wouldn't be able to hear you." 
The sympathetic look in her eyes and the gentle tone of her voice was too much for me and I felt tears spilling down my cheeks. I didn't want sympathy. What I wanted was to be able to speak in a normal voice like everyone around me. I walked towards the end of the line and took my place next to the seventh candle. Feeling humiliated, not only because of not getting a speaking part but because I was the oldest and tallest of all the children who were to play as candles. So I stood there, my head bowed, and my eyes riveted to a spot on the floor. Until that day I had not realized just how low my voice really was. No matter how hard I tried, my voice was no more than a whisper; no one could hear me unless they stood right near me. 

As soon as I walked through the door my mother saw the disappointment in my face. 
"What happened? You look so unhappy." 
"Mama, why can't I talk like everyone else? They said no one could hear me from the stage." 
My mother sat me down by the table and with a sad sigh said, 
"Remember how quiet we had to be all the time when we were hiding on Mr. Tomaszkow's farm? How we had to speak in very low whispers? You just got used to speaking that way, that's all." 
"Will I ever have a normal voice?" 
"Of course you will, it will just take time. In the meantime 
you'll be a beautiful candle and papa and I can't wait to see you on stage." 

My parents had married in 1935 just as unrest was beginning to heat up in Germany. Like all newly married couples, they dreamt about starting a family. My father was one of six children and my mother had two brothers. They had aunts, uncles and many cousins. Theirs was a large family. 

I was born in Krak?w, Poland on January 1, 1938, my parents named me Hania after a very dear friend of theirs who had died of tuberculosis at the age of 36. It was not the safest year for a Jewish child to enter the world. 

My mother told me, when I was born my father bought the nicest carriage he could find. It was low and sleek, shaped like a sports car and people would stop him to ask where he bought it whenever they took me to the park and promenade. They bought me toys, played with me and read bedtime stories to me. I was loved, nurtured and lived my life as any normal child would. We had no way of knowing we would be engulfed by the drastic changes taking place around us and that soon our lives would be changed forever and that my parents' dream of having a large family snuffed out. 

Being only eighteen months old at the beginning of the Nazis occupation of Poland, I know only what my parents told me of that period of my life. Some parents spoke constantly to their children about their experiences. This was not the case in our home and that was fine with me. As a young girl starting a new life in a new country, America, I was only too anxious to put those horrible memories behind me. So, I never asked for details. The only time the subject came up was when we got together with other survivors, or mourned the loss of friends and family now living only in old photos that were somehow rescued, or when there was a documentary on the subject on television. 

One summer when I was nineteen years old I vacationed in Nantucket with my friend Naomi. One evening we were riding our bikes and got separated. I went back to the hotel where we were staying and waited on the porch for her. While I was waiting, another guest of the hotel, a young man, came over and sat next to me. He was tall and slim. He had blond hair cut short, cool gray eyes and a strong, square jaw. Although he was American, he represented the epitome of what to me the German Aryan race would look like. As he began speaking, I became ill and started shaking to the point where I had to excuse myself. I ran up to my room and barely made it in time to the bathroom where I vomited. It dawned on me then that I could not escape my past. No matter how hard I tried to deny it, it had always been there in my subconscious. With this inescapable realization came a sudden yearning to know everything. So, I questioned my parents continually, and while they answered my specific questions they seldom did so in depth and never volunteered information. 

Many years later when my own children were learning about World War II in public school and were asking questions about our experiences during the war, I realized how little they knew of our family's past. I felt it was very important for me to document our experiences. Many Jews suffered much more than we during the war, nevertheless it became critical for me that my children learn and never forget what their grandparents endured, but more, what Jews endured. I wanted them to know how lucky they were to be in this great country, but also to be aware of the danger signals and the need to stay involved in the obligations of citizenship. More importantly, I wanted them to be proud of being Jewish and understand that their heritage is more than ancient stories. Being a Jew had always carried a price and requires that one never be complacent. 

While drinking tea one Passover after a Seder, one Passover in my parent's home, I broached the subject of the war, explaining my intentions. To my surprise my parents agreed. Perhaps they conceded that their story should be told. I took out my tape recorder and suggested they start with what life had been like in Krak?w before the Nazis and how it had changed. As my mother began talking her voice started to quiver and her eyes grew red with tears, and all at once she couldn't continue. My father tried to pick up where she left off, but he choked up as well. We were shocked at how vivid the memories still were for my parents. I couldn't bear causing them so much pain, so we stopped and never spoke of it again. Now, of course, I wish I had seen it through, no matter how painful it would have been. One thing became abundantly clear to me; the holocaust is not a thing of the past, it is with us to this very day and evokes raw emotion from those who lived through it, even after 45 years. We had to leave the country of our birth, our home, friends and a way of life. Our family, once large, loving and close-knit, was reduced to these five members. Everyone else had been murdered. 

I was extremely fortunate to have survived with my parents at my side. I can only imagine the agony of children who were ripped from their parents' arms and found themselves alone, in a world out to destroy them. All around me I heard about the horrors people experienced in the concentration camps. I even saw pictures that had been smuggled out of the camps, showing corpses, no more than bones, tossed one on top of each other, like a heap of trash. These sights and stories caused me to have nightmares; many times waking in the middle of the night when I dreamt I was the subject of these atrocities. Then guilt set in and I thought, "what right do you have to feel gloomy or lonely? You didn't go through nearly as much as these people have." Yet I know I did not escape unscathed. For almost three years I had spent each day and night with no one but my parents, and I had heard the terror in their voices when they hushed me from speaking too loudly or tried to comfort me when I cried from being hungry. 

When I should have been running around playing, making friends and developing my own identity, I was in a room approximately six feet by four feet and four feet high at its highest point. The instructions drilled into me were to be quiet, obedient, not to question or demand anything lest I add to my parent's worries and above all to be very quiet. 

Psychiatrists tell us the first six years are the most formative in a child's life. If this is true, what was I to think about myself when the messages received, from the outside world was, a Jewish child was unworthy of life. 





Chapter Two 

Since the twelfth century Polish Kings had opened their doors wide to all Jews wishing refuge from the countries which persecuted them. Through the centuries they had become such an important part of Polish life that a charter of protection was issued which guaranteed the rights of full life to all Jews all over Poland. During this period Jews helped design and build cities, schools and community centers. As Poland gained leadership over other Slavic lands, Jews were named as administrators, builders and merchants. 

While the kings valued the Jews, the Catholic Church in Poland patiently built a structure of anti-Semitism. When the Church reached unshakable power in Poland, anti-Semitism Jews had escaped from was revived in Poland. Soon Jews were forbidden by the Church to own farmland or to engage in agriculture. As the Church grew stronger, the Jews were increasingly more isolated and slowly lost all of their privileges. 

David Symchowicz, my father, was born on the 29th day of January 1910 in Krak?w, Poland, at a time when very few things went well for Jews of that city. High unemployment, and famine throughout the city intensified anti-Semitism to new heights. Frequent attacks on Jewish shops and Jewish students at the university and technical schools increased. 

In the 1930s Jews were removed from all government, municipal and public institutions' jobs. Aryan firms were forbidden to employ Jewish workers and officials. Jews were forbidden to use public and private libraries, to go to the theater, museums, or the movies. Jews were not allowed to use state or municipal means of transportation such as railways, buses or trains. Rules also forbade Jews from pursuing professional careers. 

As a result, the mass of Jews were desperately poor, most were factory workers, artisans and petty merchants who worked 15 hours or more a day and lived on a diet of potatoes and herring. Children in particular spent the better part of each day devising ways to fill their bellies. It required street smarts and imagination. My father had an abundance of both. 

Papa was the eldest among five brothers and a sister. He never spoke much about his family but whenever he did it wasn't with kindness. We have no photos of them but I had been told papa's mother was a tall, slender and a rather plain looking woman. Her lips tightly drawn into a thin line giving the impression nothing was to her liking. She ran the household without humor or affection. Papa's father, Baruch, was a tall, statuesque man with a full head of white hair and a thick beard. He had been extremely devoted to his wife and if she complained the children had been unruly, his punishment was swift and severe and mostly directed at his oldest son. 
"You should know better." Or "You should have stopped them before they upset your mother." Papa's father would say. 

One of the few times papa spoke about his family, he recalled being blamed for eating a whole chicken meant to be dinner for the family that night. Papa was three years old. He had not know there was a chicken for dinner and even if he had, could a three-year-old child have eaten an entire roaster that could feed a family of eight by himself? Nevertheless, he was punished and went to sleep without supper. 

A string of similar episodes caused papa to revert inward and alienated him from his family. Spending as little time as possible at home, he learned self-reliance at a very early age. Father was a quiet man, a loner who tended to keep his worries and frustrations to himself. He had been taught not to expect nor seek help from anyone. It was a philosophy he subscribed to throughout his life. 

Father had learned to survive by his visceral feelings, a vivid imagination and a tenacity to live. There had always been a dearth of food. No one could afford to have lavish meals, and portions were never enough to satiate. Many children went to bed with their stomachs grumbling. Father had devised many ways to stave off hunger. One of his favorite methods was to make a spear from a twig, hide in a tree that overhung the main road to the market. As the farmers walked by, carrying baskets of produce on their shoulders, father speared the fruit with the twig and the farmers never were the wiser. 

The one exception to meager meals was during the High Holy days. Traditionally, housewives prepared chulent (a meat stew) gefilte fish, cakes, cookies and breads. There was so much preparation that women brought cakes and breads to the bakery to be baked in the large ovens for a small fee. This increased activity presented another opportunity for my father. He went to the bakeshop, looked around to see what was available. Pointing to the cake he liked best, he told the baker he was sent by the woman to pick it up and deliver it to her. He paid the small fee, took the cake and had a feast. His neighbors who clucked their tongues whenever he passed by may have considered him a hooligan, but hunger and self-preservation was a great motivator. His actions, however, further chafed his parents. 

Remembering how hungry he had always been in Poland, and how he had to connive for a little extra food made my father appreciate the life we had in America that much more. One of his greatest pleasures, after we were established in this country, was to invite my uncles Chil and Avruhm to our apartment for Sunday breakfasts. Father and I got up early, washed and dressed quietly so as not to wake mama. We'd go to the appetizing store and buy lox, smoked whitefish, herring with onion in cream sauce, American, Muenster, and Swiss cheese. Then we'd walk to the nearby bakery for rolls, bagels, muffins, bread and Danish pastry. 
"Did we forget anything, Hannahly?' father would always ask. 
"No, papa, I think we have everything we need." 
Mother pretended to sleep when we were getting ready and as soon as we were out the door, she got up, set the table with butter, cream cheese, jellies and jams and made room for the goodies we'd come home with. A large pot of coffee percolated on the stove. There was so much food you felt full just looking at it. He sat with a mystical smile on his face, telling us, "eat, eat, tomorrow is Monday, you'll diet tomorrow." When we complained we were so full we couldn't move, he would say, "In my house no one will ever go hungry." Almost always, as my Uncle Avruhm looked around at the abundance of food, he almost always reminisced of how little they had to eat in Poland. 
"Remember David, if we had a chicken to eat it was because someone was very sick." Chil said. At which point Uncle Avruhm said, 
"That's nothing, we ate meat once a year, Rosh Hashana. Passover is when we had our one egg." Each one trying to outdo the other telling of the poverty followed uproarious laughter. 

When he was old enough, father had apprenticed after school for a man named Moeshe, who made women's clothing. Father was a hard worker who quickly learned the trade. Moeshe saw a lot of promise in him and soon began giving him more responsibilities, even adopted some of the design suggestions my father offered. 

Under Moeshe's tutelage father showed uncommon talent with styling and original uses of various fabrics. Soon they were swamped with orders for clothes for Bar Mitzvahs and weddings. Men and women brought in their old suits and coats and asked papa and Moeshe to turn them inside out so they'd look like new. But father had aspirations of designing gowns, dresses, suits and coats for all kinds of women - not only for the Jewish women. Jewish women wore mostly very modest dresses that were long sleeved, high necked and long. Father wanted to design fashionable clothes for the gentile women who went to parties and dances and theaters. In order to realize his dream, he knew he had to expand his knowledge about fashion. At the age of twenty he left Poland to find work in Paris with somebody who would teach him about design, style, fabrics and techniques. 

This was a cyclical industry, therefore, it allowed father to travel to many cities exploring the world of fashion during the off-season. By the time he was twenty-one years old he had traveled to Brussels, Belgium, Vienna, Paris, Berlin, Heidelberg, Dusseldorf and Luxembourg. 

Travel was one of my father's passions. It opened up a rich and exciting world he had never known existed. Sometimes, on cold winter evenings we sat in the living room listening to music, while my father reminisced about his travels. He described the wide boulevards in Belgium lined with trees, the Champs Elysses in Paris, the great coffeehouses in Vienna with their wonderful pastries and the nightlife of Berlin. He always spoke of how people could sit at outdoor cafes with a cup of coffee and a newspaper all day and no one would disturb them or ask them to leave. He loved to watch people going to and fro striking up conversations and exchanging stories and ideas with people he met. It was evident, from the fervor of his narration, just how much he loved the cosmopolitan life of these great cities. One of the highlights of his trips to Europe had been when he and a friend, Josef, were in Paris and decided to splurge on tickets to the theater. They saw a play that had just opened, "Louise" starring Maurice Chevalier. The title song "Louise" had always been father's favorite and Chevalier remained father's best-liked actor ever since. He never missed a film that Maurice Chevalier starred in. 

While he worked in Paris, he saved as much money as he could, enabling him to travel and live during the slow season. At the same time he wanted to put something away towards the purchase of his own business and to have enough to see him through until he established himself. Figuring if he didn't have it, he wouldn't spend it, he budgeted a certain amount to be sent home each month to his parents for safekeeping. 

With some of the money he had allowed for himself, he was able to purchase the latest Parisian fabrics to take back to Poland when the time came. At least, he thought, he would start out with beautiful inventory. 

After a couple of years working and saving in this manner, he calculated he had enough to get started. Optimistic about his future, he returned home to Krak?w. His parents were not pleased to see him. Anxious to rent space for his shop, he asked his parents for the money he had sent them. 
"Money, what money?" they asked. 
"The money I sent you every month for the past two years," he answered. 
"We never received money from you, I don't know what you're talking about," his mother said. 
David looked at them in disbelieve. Could they really do this to him? Had they no feelings for him, their eldest son? He was stunned and deeply upset that his parents could deceive him this way. Bitterly disappointed and finally coming to terms of just how unloved he really was, he strayed further and further away from them. 

Now broke, his dreams shattered and in profound anguish, unwilling to confide in anyone, he went to Moeshe asking for his old job back. Happy to see his old friend and confrere, Moeshe greeted him warmly and enthusiastically. 
"You know you have a job here anytime you want, David. But let's not talk business now. Come, let's have a coffee. You can tell me what you've been up to you old devil." 
As they sat catching up on events, Moeshe sensed there was a deep change in David, but he knew better than to ask. As they walked back, Moeshe said, 
"You know I'm your friend, we've known each other a long time." 
"I know." David answered, looking at Moeshe, anticipating the qualifier. 
"You know you can tell me anything and it will always remain between us," Moeshe continued. 
The icy stare from David's cold gray eyes told Moeshe not to venture further on this topic. 

David threw himself at his work like a man possessed; extremely determined, promising himself this setback was not going to break him. He denied himself the slightest luxury in order to save. After a while he had enough money to open a tiny shop on a side street. His store was modest, but well stocked with the beautiful fabrics he had carefully selected in Paris, and which up to now had not been seen in Poland. 

What appealed most to the women was that each garment was made to order. Father either drew the style according to the woman's description or she showed him a photo of what she wanted. Patterns were made and fabrics selected. In cases of complex styles, fabric would be draped around her and cut as she stood. He was possibly one of the first in Krak?w to cut material on the bias. He used techniques he learned in Paris, like French hems, rolled hems and hidden zippers. He kept the women's measurements on file so when they came back all they had to do was say what they wanted and select new fabrics. 

During the off-season, father traveled to see what new styles fashionable women of the famous cities were wearing. He sat in the same cafes he loved so much, sketching the outfits women wore as they strolled by. He shopped for the latest fabrics and brought these back for the women of Krak?w. 

Peasants and aristocrats, Jews and gentiles came from all over to see his designs and materials. In a short time he had made a name for himself in the industry. Word spread about the talented dressmaker, the unusual textiles and unique styles. At last, things were going well for David. 






Chapter Three 

Radom, Poland where Hela Richter, my mother, was born on March 12, 1913 was a small city about 125 miles north of Krak?w. 

Hela's mother, Ruchel, was a woman that would not have been called beautiful but standing five foot four, with a svelte figure and shining black hair, she was a handsome woman who had the ability to project a certain aura when entering a room. Never much of a housekeeper, preferring to read rather than cook and clean, she had a keen mind, a warm, perceptive personality and a magnetism that drew people to her. 

When Ruchel's husband, Shulom died, soon after Hela was born, she was left with the task of providing for three growing children, a position she was ill equipped to handle. Although family and friends were more than willing to help her look after the children, none were in a position to help her monetarily. Knowing no other way, she took the meager savings her husband had left and bought fabrics, linens, and other dry goods from a friend who sold it to her at cost. She took these to the marketplace and tried selling them for a profit. Even though Ruchel would get to the marketplace early in the morning and stay as late into the evening as she could, her earnings were not sufficient to buy food and clothing for growing children. Unable to sleep at night, pondering her situation, she came to the decision that in order to make enough money for her family, she needed to move to a larger city. Krak?w, where her sister, Sara, lived was the nearest large city. If they moved there they at least would not be all alone. An added advantage was that Krak?w attracted many travelers. Perhaps during the height of the tourist season she might be able to make extra money. Another important benefit was being close enough to Radom to be able to visit family and friends and not feel so cut-off from everyone. Her mind made up, she took her family and made a new home in Krak?w's Jewish Quarter. 

Mama was a spirited child by virtue of not only being the youngest of three children but the only girl as well. She was encouraged, in no small measure, by her brothers, Avruhm and Henek, who thought everything she did was clever and funny. While she did everything asked of her with great alacrity, somehow she always managed to get into trouble and exasperate everyone around her. 

Mama had a notorious sweet tooth and could ferret out treats no matter how innovative the hiding places. Sugar in particular had to be hidden or there'd be nothing left. Mama would wet her index finger, dip it into the sugar and lick it off. Thinking she was just taking a little, she soon discovered she had eaten all the sugar in the bowl. 

Using her ingenuity, mother found other ways to get sweets. Her aunt, who lived a few blocks away, had two small boys. One was a baby who still slept in a crib and the other was just a couple of years younger than she was. While her aunt was not rich, she certainly was better off than Hela's family. Treats were available at her aunt's house all the time. 
"Does Aunt Sara need help with chores around the house?" Hela asked her mother. 
"Why don't you go over after school and ask her?" her mother suggested. "How come you're being so thoughtful all of a sudden?" 
"Oh, I don't know. I just like it over there," she answered. 
"I bet your Aunt Sara has lots of cookies at home, doesn't she?" 
"I don't know, but that's not why," my mother protested. But in her mind she had it all figured out. 
"If I go over after school, Aunt Sara might give me a treat even if she doesn't need help with her chores," she thought to herself. 
As it happened, one day Aunt Sara needed my mother to watch the baby while she ran some errands. 
"All you have to do is put him in the crib and rock him gently. He'll soon fall asleep," Aunt Sara told my mother. "And don't go off leaving him alone." 
Not long after Aunt Sara left, some of mother's friends came by. 
"Can you come out and play?" they asked. 
"Can't. I have to watch the baby." 
Mama heard her friends outside having fun while she was stuck in the house. Suddenly she had a fantastic idea and she wouldn't be breaking her promise to Aunt Sara either. 
"Wait a minute," she called to her friends. "I'll be right out." 
She put the baby in the crib, took rope and wrapped it around the crib in a crisscross fashion and threw a long piece of rope out of the window. When she went outside, she took the piece of rope and pulled it gently back and forth, rocking the baby in the crib. Now she was able to be with her friends. 

Somehow, along the way the game they were playing was getting exciting and as it reached its crescendo so did the rocking of the baby. Suddenly, they heard a scream and crying. They all ran into the house and found the baby on the floor, the crib on top of him. Alarmed at what her aunt would say, Mama quickly washed the baby and quieted him. She put him back in the crib and this time she stayed in the house, praying the baby would not say anything to her aunt. 

Mama's face glowed as she remembered many tranquil days during the summer when she and her brothers, Avruhm and Henek, walked to a park not far from their home. It was a wonderful place. The many tall trees created a woodland setting and provided cool shade and a home for a variety of birds, whose chorus made it seem as though they were in a far-away land. The three of them walked along a path, which took them to a small stream, which gurgled over rocks as it meandered downstream. They took off their shoes and socks and waded in the cool water. Mama loved to watch the small fish swimming by and tried to catch them in her cupped hands. 

As wonderful as the summers had been, mama told me her most favorite part of the year had been Passover. No matter how little they had during the year, somehow their home had been magically transformed into a glowing place. For weeks beforehand the house had been cleaned so that everything sparkled. New spring clothes and shoes (patent leather for mama) had been purchased and put aside for the holiday. Avruhm and Henek were responsible for taking all the books out of the house, dusting and airing each page to rid the books of any chumatz (forbidden food during Passover) that may have gathered between the pages. 

Mama and my bubbe, Ruchel, worked inside the house, cleaning everything until not a trace of chumatz could be found, except for a small space in the corner of the kitchen where we could still eat until Passover. At the Seder, Avruhm, the eldest, sat at the head of the table, reclined against pillows puffed up behind him. The table had been set with a sparkling white tablecloth and Passover dishes, matzah and bitter herbs and Avruhm read from the Haggadah in Hebrew. 

The next day they all dressed in their new clothes and went to synagogue. Afterwards, the neighborhood children examined each others' outfits. 

When Hela was 8 or 9, she went to Aunt Sara's to play with her cousin who was about 4 or 5 years old. Everything was going along fine and they were having a lot of fun playing all sorts of games. Then my mother decided to really give him a treat. She had him stand behind her, back-to-back, then, she'd pull him by the arms, over her head so he wound up in front of her. He pealed with laughter. They were having a grand time when suddenly something went terribly wrong. As she was pulling him, he came out with a terrifying scream. She let go and he fell to the ground in agony. She looked at him and at once saw there was something wrong with his arms. They were not sitting right at his shoulders. That's when she realized she had pulled both his arms out of their sockets. She was terrified, what should she do? She told her little cousin she'd be right back and ran home with all the speed that she could muster to get help. Her heart pounding like a kettledrum, hair plastered to her head with sweat, eyes wild with fright and her cheeks crimson from exertion, she ran right into her brother, Avruhm. Gasping for air, she tried to tell him what had happened, but the words came out incoherently. Guessing something dreadful had happened, he ran to Aunt Sara's house. As soon as he grasped the situation, he called the doctor who snapped the poor kid's arms back in place. Needless to say, mama's baby-sitting days were over. As far as we know, so were the days of "scrounging for treats." 

This last incident frightened mama so much she made extra efforts to stay out of trouble. She was expected to clean the apartment when she got home from school and start the evening meal, above all, she was expected not to get into mischief. 

One winter morning, she watched her mother strap a bundle of goods to her back, and walk towards the marketplace. Hela, seeing her mother hunched over from the weight of her burden, felt tears stinging her eyes. Hela realized, not for the first time, what a hard life her mother had. Having to go out in all kinds of weather, worrying about money, hoping to have enough to feed and clothe all of them. She noticed how tired her mother seemed lately when she came home in the evenings. Hela wished she could do something to make her mother's life easier. The boys were already working after school, maybe she could find a job as well. But someone had to keep the house clean and make supper so there'd be something to eat when everyone came home. Hela knew, after a long day at the market, her mother loved to relax by reading the newspapers. She bought several. Reading was her mother's passion. On the Sabbath when all of them returned from the synagogue, she placed a chair by the window that provided the most light and spent the day reading. Mama vowed to herself to take care of all the things that needed to be done around the house in order to free her mother from those worries. 

One day, when she got home from school, she straightened out the apartment and started the vegetable soup they would have for dinner with black bread and butter. Tonight they would have dairy. It was a gloomy day and the light in the kitchen was not very bright. Mama lit a candle and put it on a shelf above the stove so she could see what she was doing. She had put in all the ingredients and the soup needed only to simmer on a low flame until the vegetables were tender. With nothing more that needed to be done, mama decided to go outside and spend some time with her friends. That evening when everyone came home and sat down to dinner, she served the soup. Everyone complimented her on how good it was except that it was a little too fatty. They were almost finished eating when her brother, Avruhm, discovered the reason the soup tasted that way. He found the candlewick in his soup. While mother was out with her friends, the steam from the soup melted the candle on the shelf and since she didn't cover the pot, the candle wax became one of the ingredients. 

As mother spoke of her childhood and revealed some of the now comic antics, she shook her head sadly at the memory of those days and how unimaginable it had been at the time to think she would be thrust from being a citizen of the country of her birth into a vile fugitive forced into hiding or be killed for being a Jew. 
























Chapter Four 

Mama had known David ever since her family moved from Radom to Krak?w. Her brothers, Avruhm and Henek attended the same schools as David and his brothers and they had become good friends from the start. 

Arduous as life had been for the, responsibilities, worries and schoolwork had been pushed aside and forgotten momentarily most Sunday mornings on a soccer field. There were no formal teams, just a group of neighborhood kids getting together for a game or two. The regulars had been my father and his youngest brother Chil, and Avruhm and Henek. 

On many occasions my mother and two of her friends Esther and Vita, had gone to the soccer field to watch the boys play. Afterwards, all of them went to a local caf? for lunch and spent the afternoon together. 

The same group of friends got together Saturday nights after the Sabbath and went to the movies, especially if Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton were being shown. Or they went to the community center for a night of dancing. Soon a pattern had been established. Avruhm and Esther, Henek and Vita and David and Hela paired up. 

As the years passed, school had been replaced by apprenticeships and some of the boys moved away in pursuit of careers, but the three couples had stayed together. 

David had spent two years in Paris and Berlin rounding out his fashion knowledge and techniques. When he returned to Poland he opened a small shop on a side street in the Jewish quarter of Krak?w. David invited Hela, Avruhm, Esther, Henek and Vita to see his new place of business. As the five followed David, their hearts' sank when they saw the little shop. Against the far wall, taking up most of the space, stood an industrial size sewing machine he had bought second-hand from Stefan Zytko, who repaired and traded in used sewing machines. He had met Stefan when he apprenticed for Moeshe and they had become good friends. On the opposite wall, were shelves with bolts of fabric David had brought from Paris. But that left so little room in the middle, they had to take turns to see the inside of the shop. 

Hela suggested putting down wooden planks on the floor to make it more presentable. Hela and Vita happened to be in the shop when David's first customer came in. As the customer stepped into the shop, the wooden plant rose up at the other end. Hela had to stand on one end to prevent it from lifting and Vita had to go outside so there'd be room for the customer. David smiled shyly as the teasing about the events of his first customer grew relentless. 

In 1932 Avruhm announced he and Esther were getting married, the celebration was exuberant. But a year later, Esther died giving birth to a daughter, Hendl. Avruhm could not be consoled. He started drinking, playing cards and gambling. It fell on his mother, Ruchel to take care of his daughter. 

Avruhm's wedding had been the first. Henek and Vita followed and three years later, Nusha, their daughter was born. 

David and Hela continued seeing each other and their relationship had become more ardent. Hela's mother, Ruchal, was not pleased. She had heard rumors about David's travels and womanizing. But Hela knew David was not at all as the gossips depicted him. She knew David had a gentle nature. At one time he had confided in her about his parents. The pain in his voice whenever he spoke of them brought tears to her eyes. He was a man not given to much talk, he communicated by a touch, a look. When they took leisurely walks, he had always taken her hand when crossing the street. His hand was warm and dry. She found it easy to walk with him. He didn't take giant steps. There had been long silent moments, but they did not feel the least bit awkward. 

David asked Hela to marry him just before Hanukah in 1934. When she said yes, he put his arm around her waist and kissed her for the first time. It was so unexpected and over so quickly. She felt cheated somehow. She had imagined how their first kiss would be. This wasn't it. Seeing the way they kissed in the movies, she expected it to be a long, lingering kiss accompanied by great emotion. 

Papa and mama were married September 18, 1935 in a beautiful old synagogue on Miodowa Street in the Jewish quarter of Krak?w. After their wedding they rented a two-room apartment on 26 Ulica Krak?wska and bought a new bedroom set and a kitchen table. Having received quite a lot of beautiful gifts, they settled into their newly married life together. Among the gifts they received was one they particularly cherished because of how much sacrifice it had taken to obtain it for them. A beautiful set of dinnerware for meat dinners Hela's mother had given them. 

Papa's European travels had been curtailed after the wedding. But early in 1937 papa once more traveled to the fashion centers of Europe for new ideas and inspirations for the summer season. Papa didn't want to risk his fashion sense growing stale. He needed to know whether the hems were up or down, if the waist was in or not. Offering his clients no more than any other good tailor would not draw the fashionable women to his shop. Mama was more than capable of doing the alterations while he was gone. 

Berlin was his first stop. He was shocked at the apparent changes since his last visit. Berlin had approximately 200 to 300 Nazis to whom no one paid much attention until that vile weasel, Goebbels, arrived. He organized the Nazis and sent them out to beat up leftists and Jews. Their activities, reported in newspapers, served as free publicity. Very quickly all the thugs in the city couldn't wait to join the Nazi party and get in on the fun. 

Papa told me about a conversation he had had with Josef, an old friend whom he always saw when he was in Berlin. 
"There are new restrictions against us almost every day." Josef said 
"What are these Nuremberg Laws I keep reading about?" David asked. 
"It means we are no longer German citizens, we are now German subjects. Can you believe it? I was born here, my parents before me. I lived here all my life - now, suddenly, I'm no longer a German citizen." They sat in grim silence for a while, each with his own thoughts. Josef kept his head down, shaking it. 
He said, almost to himself, "My father served in World War I." He looked up at David. "Did you know that?" He asked. 
David shook his head. "No, I didn't know." 
"Yes. He even won the Iron Cross for God's sake. He was so proud of that. Now we're not even citizens. Puff, just like that," Josef said as he snapped his fingers. He looked at David, shaking his head. 
"What are you going to do Josef?" 
"Oh, listen, this will pass. The Nazis, they won't last. They have what, a couple of hundred members? Nothing will happen. I'll just wait it out." 
"I hope you're right Josef." 
"Sure I'm right. Listen David, how many years have the Jews been persecuted? How many thousands of years? I'm telling you - these Nazis won't last." 

David wasn't sure. There was something almost palpable in the air that was different this time, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He hoped Josef would be proven right. 

His conversation with Josef left papa very disturbed. What did all this Nazi activity mean? Was it just a phase as Josef averred or should it be taken more seriously as papa thought? As he walked the streets of Berlin mulling over this conundrum he noticed all the streets, museums, theatres and other public places once named after prominent Jews had been renamed, as if the Jews never existed or contributed to that city's prosperity. 

How ironic, papa thought that the Nazis erased the memory of Jewish prominence from public view yet spent their evenings in cafes watching the Can-Can dancers. Did they feign ignorance while slurping champagne, stuffing themselves with caviar and the finest food money could buy, ogling the spicy performers that there would be no Can-Can without music written by Offenbach, a Jew? 

One day, papa was sitting in an outdoor coffeehouse and saw Josef and Karl, another friend, rush over to him. 
"David, you won't believe it. The Nazis stormed into my apartment building, went to everybody's apartment and tore out their phones, so now what are we to do?" Josef asked. 
"And now we have to carry ID cards and special ration cards with a big J printed on them." Added Karl. 
"But the best part, David, you know what the best part is? A crowd of people were standing watching the Nazis and in the crowd was Hans Gerber." 
"Who's that?" Papa asked. 
"You know Hans. He owns that small bake shop down the street, we 
always had a coffee with him on Templehof Strasse." 
"Oh yes, the elderly gentlemen, always telling jokes." 
"Yes, well that elderly gentlemen was there in the crowd. I ran over to him to see if he could help. Well, he just stared straight ahead pretending he didn't see me, then turned his back and walked away." 

That perhaps, was the most disturbing news, the changes in attitudes of ordinary citizens. People, with whom, only yesterday you may have shared a cup of coffee at a caf?, had become immune to the violence and public humiliations perpetrated against the Jews. That was what papa thought was so dangerous. It seemed that the city had become rabid where every other person frothed in violent insanity. 

Jews were no longer allowed in hospitals and doctors were not permitted to prescribe medicine. A neighbor of Josef's, Irma, had a little boy of four years old, who had developed one of the childhood diseases which comes on suddenly and is accompanied by a high fever. The little boy could not be admitted to a hospital because of these new rules. A doctor did come to see him, but since he could not prescribe medicine, the boy's temperature kept rising until he had diarrhea and vomited alarmingly frequently. Before long he started vomiting blood and finally went into convulsions. Irma held him, trying to comfort him until he died two days later. 

In May of the same year, mama made an appointment with her doctor. Her menstruation had not come the last two months. She was feeling queasy in the mornings when she got out of bed. The doctor confirmed what she suspected. That night at dinner she told papa they would be parents by the end of the year. My mother told me many times that my father was euphoric at the news. On New Years Eve, mama's labor pains began. I was born at 2:30 in the morning of January first 1938. 

After my birth, papa went back to Berlin and Brussels on his way to Paris twice more, once in the summer of 1938 and again at the beginning of 1939. Each time he returned to Berlin things seemed increasingly worse for the Jews than on his previous visits. He saw them dressed more shabbily, in layers of clothing, several pairs of socks, sweaters and shawls because they lacked fuel to keep warm. They were not allowed on public transportation, so bicycles became their lifelines. They stood in endless lines, scavenging whatever was left for them that was edible since they were now only permitted to shop one or two hours a day after five o'clock in the afternoon when there was nothing left to buy. More and more stores displayed posters declaring they did not sell to Jews. Many newspapers and magazines that claimed literary and philosophical merit, played up to the German propaganda in their editorials. None had the courage to offer opposing views, although some were more discreet than others in their daily call for death to the Jews. 

Papa was horrified to see the new ways the Nazis found to torment the Jews. They marched randomly into Jewish homes looting or confiscating all their belongings. In some homes they even pried up the floorboards, no doubt looking for the legendary riches people of their ilk always thought the Jews possessed. When their search yielded nothing, they often took revenge by braking furniture and ripping up all their clothing. Clothes were rationed and mostly unavailable to the Jews. Ironically, they had to spend part of their meager clothing allowance for the six-pointed star they were forced to wear with the word 'JUDE' in big black letters printed on it marking them pariahs to the world, just in case anyone was stupid enough not to grasp the point. It was almost like buying bullets for your own assassination. 

Papa looked everywhere for Josef, Karl and some of the other men he used to see whenever he was in Berlin but could find none of them. He inquired about the men wherever he went but no one had seen them for over a week. One neighbor told papa the Nazis, together with the German police, had stormed into Jewish homes, including the building where Josef lived, and dragged people out, hauled them into trucks and drove away. No one had seen these people since. Papa tried to find out where they had been taken but no one seemed to know. 

Hitler was now stronger than ever, and the German police were more than willing participants in carrying out Hitler's policies. Like converts who are more religious than the priests, the would-be Nazis were eager to outdo their teachers. They were as fierce and brutal, if not more so, as the Nazis. Their only mantra seemed to be, "get the Jews - kick them out of Germany." 
"I cannot go back," he had told mama when he came home from his last trip. "It's too dangerous now. The worst are the Hitler youth. They're drunk with power and they feel superior. They have the taste of blood in their nostrils and they enjoy causing pain. And Hitler knows just how to manipulate them. Get them all riled up." 

For the first time in his life papa was really scared. As he read the newspapers, keeping up with the events in Germany, "It seems he (Hitler) is only after the annihilation of the Jews." Papa remarked to no one in particular. 






Chapter Five 

After I was born my parents made changes in the way they worked. Mama continued to work at home where she could take care of me. Papa worked at the shop helping customers select styles and fabrics and at night, after dinner, he did the cutting at home. Because of the growth of their business, mama had to help with the sewing and it soon became apparent my parents needed someone to help take care of me and do some light housework and cooking. 

Krak?w was a beautiful city. It had theaters, restaurants and an active nightlife, as well as exquisite churches and aristocratic palaces. One very famous church, St. Mary's (Mariack Church) is still one of the finest Gothic structures in the country. An ensemble of spires elaborated with a crown and a helmet tops the taller of the church's towers. It is a place of legend. The tale professes a watchman stationed at the top of this tower saw Tartar invaders approaching. He raised his trumpet to sound a warning but the alarm was cut short by an arrow through his throat. To this day, every hour a trumpeter plays the somber melody, halting abruptly at the precise point the watchman was supposed to have been hit. The national radio station, as well, broadcasts this live at noon every day. 

However, Wawel Hill royal castle, for centuries the residence of kings, remains the most famous palace and cathedral. This had been the residence of Archbishop Karol Wejtyla of Krak?w until October 1978 when he was elected to the papacy and is now known to the world as Pope John Paul II. Wawel Hill castle and cathedral have been compared to Westminster Abbey in England. 

Below Wawel Hill castle is the town center and the largest square of Medieval Europe, Rynek Glowny, which continues to be the focal point and heart of the city. With its huge expanse of flagstones, encircled by magnificent houses and spires it's an immediate introduction to Krak?w's grandeur. 

Just south of Wawel Hill lies Kazimierz, the Jewish quarter of the city. Named after King Kazimierz Wielki who, in 1335, invited Jewish immigrants to live in Poland. It is rumored that the king's generosity towards the Jews was based on his love for a Jewish girl, Esther, who lived at 46 Ulica Krak?wska. The Jews are gone now, but for the many centuries that they lived there with their unique culture and the values that guided them, their lives were rich, beautiful and varied. 

Krak?w was the art and cultural center of Poland and compared in beauty to Prague and Vienna. Not surprisingly, many young people from small villages and farms were eager to come to Krak?w. Since Jews were not allowed to own land or to participate in agriculture, the people in small villages and farms were all gentiles. Farm families wanted their children to attend universities and seek opportunities the big city offered that would free them from the backbreaking work on the farms. Their families, while they needed help on the land, were eager to give their children opportunities to better themselves. At the same time, they were anxious for them to have jobs lined up with good, stable families where they would have room and board and some spending money in exchange for chores around the house. It is perhaps ironic, given the mood of the times that many of these young adults found employment with Jewish families. 

Tanya, a beautiful 18-year old young lady, came to our home under this arrangement. She had big expressive blue eyes and a flawless complexion. She wore her thick blond hair in a single huge braid down her back. More importantly, however, she seemed warm and gregarious. My parents took a liking to her immediately and trusted her to take care of me. Tanya took me to parks, for walks and to playgrounds. She gave me baths, read to me and played with me. In the afternoons she cooked dinner while my parents worked. My parents told me how much I liked her and how attached to her I had become. 

It wasn't long before she made friends and was invited to parties, movies and concerts. Mama, aware of her responsibility and not wishing to worry Tanya's parents, set an acceptable hour for her to come home whenever she went out with her new friends. Sometimes when she came home, mama made tea and they sat and talked about her evening. They talked and giggled like old school chums. 

Many times on days too nasty to go out, Tanya watched my parents work. One day father brought home blue wool fabric for cutting. Tanya fell in love with the color of the soft wool, which she said enhanced her eyes. To proof the point, she took a swatch of the fabric and held it to her face, prancing around the house like a model on a runway. 

Seeing how much she liked the material, papa asked her if she would like him to make a suit for her for Easter. She shrieked with pleasure and ran to papa, hugging him while mama stood smiling her approval at papa's suggestion and the appreciative girl. 

For a week Tanya poured over magazines trying to decide the style for her suit. Having finally made up her mind, papa took her measurements and started assembling the garment. She patiently stood for several fittings and at last the suit was finished. She was thrilled. 

On Easter Sunday Tanya wore the suit to church accompanied by her parents. She came home so excited telling papa how many compliments she had received and how everyone wanted to know where she had gotten such a beautiful suit. Seeing how pleased she was, papa decided that as a Christmas gift, he would make a red winter coat for her with a matching muff. He told her since she always was so cold, he would put in extra layers of wool under the lining to make the coat warmer. 

One Sunday evening in February 1939, Tanya was at the stove boiling water to start cooking the evening meal, I was running around the house getting in everyone's way, making a nuisance of myself. As Tanya turned to speak with my mother, I slowly crept up behind her. I stretched to reach the pot and managed to dump the boiling water all over my head and body. Screams and pandemonium ensued as papa frantically tried to get a doctor while mama and Tanya kept my hands away from my face and body to prevent me from scarring myself. 

Even in pre-war Poland, Jews could not have a profession like doctor or lawyer because of the restrictions on the schools Jews could attend. So Jews became tailors, shoemakers and shopkeepers. Papa called one Polish doctor after another to get medical help for me, but none were available. Finally one doctor was willing to see him but papa had to travel to the doctor's home three miles away. New rules by the Polish government prohibited Jews from using public transportation, so papa walked. 

It was a bitterly cold night with swirling snow in near blizzard conditions that made walking perilous. The doctor must have had some means of transportation so it would have been far easier and quicker had he come to our house. Perhaps he did not wish to be seen in a Jewish neighborhood or possibly he felt putout to be disturbed on a Sunday evening. Whatever his reason, papa had to make the journey. At least this doctor, unlike the others, had a conscience that would not allow him to refuse papa's urgent plea. The doctor prescribed a cream for the burns and a sedative with instructions of what to do. On his way back papa detoured to an all night pharmacy to get the prescription filled. Several hours passed before father came home, his face red from the howling wind, his eyebrows white with frost, but he brought the medicine. Frozen to the bone and shivering, it must have seemed like hours before he warmed up. 

The cream was applied very gently, my face and body wrapped in gauze which could not be removed at least ten days. The sedative alleviated some of my pain and helped me rest quietly. This would also enable new skin to grow without fear of infection and scarring. Ten days passed very slowly. Mother told me they and Tanya took turns watching over me day and night just in case I became fretful. My bubbe, Ruchel, came to watch me as well giving much needed respite to mama and Tanya. More than scarring, the danger of infection was a real possibility if I started scratching my wounds. Tanya blamed herself for the accident. Mama kept assuring her it was not her fault and no one was blaming her. It could have happened to anyone, but Tanya would not be consoled. Finally, the day the bandages were to be removed had arrived. Tanya stood at the door biting her lower lip, scared to enter the room. To everyone's amazement, there was no sign of infection and not one scar to be seen. Everyone gave a collective sigh of relief. Tanya ran over to me squeezing me tightly, telling me what a good girl I had been. That evening she baked cookies in celebration. 






Chapter Six 

It had surprised me how vividly my parents remembered the events of September 1, 1939, the day the Germans bombed Poland. Mama told me she and Tanya had been cleaning the apartment in preparation for the Sabbath. September 1st had been a Friday, a brilliantly clear, crisp day. They had just sat down for a cup of tea and a slice of bread before heading out to shop for the Sabbath meal. I had been sitting under the table while they ate, playing with my toys. Suddenly there was an interruption to the music on the radio with an urgent announcement that two cities near the German border had been bombed. Thinking they heard wrong, mama turned the radio louder while Tanya ran to the window. She saw people gathering on the street below and knew they had not misheard. At the same time the radio announcer said Warsaw had been bombed. Mama grabbed me and put my coat on. Together the three of us ran down to the street. Everywhere they turned people were running out of their homes to see if someone knew more than they did. 

The roar of planes made everyone look up and pointed at the sky full of Meserschmitts flying in formation. Deafening noise followed by black smoke rising in the distance. The noise was growing closer and more smoke could be seen. Krak?w had been hit. 

Mama screamed, "David," and handed me to Tanya as she ran toward the shop. She almost collided with papa who had been running home. The two of them came back to Tanya and told her to go home to make sure her family was not hurt. 

Mama was terribly worried about her mother. With me in her arms, she ran to my bubbe's home while papa ran to Avruhm and Henek. My bubbe was all right. She and Hendl were wandering near her home trying to make their way to a shelter when she saw us in the distance. 
"Avruhm, Henek," she pleaded with mama. 
"It's okay, Avruhm will be here soon. Henek went home to Vita and Nusha. Everyone is okay." Mama said. 

After finding mama's brothers, papa rushed to his own family's home. His brother, Chil was already there and taking charge of the situation. 
"What should we do, David?" Chil asked. 
"I don't know, I don't know. Do you think the shelters are safer than being on the street?" 
"Who knows, but if they hit the houses, they will collapse on top of the shelters and people might be buried in the rubble." Chil said. 

The bombing continued for days, rattling everyone's nerves. Each time the bombs came closer, my parents took belongings they could carry and ran outside because Chil had said we'd be safer in case the building was hit. Indeed, my parents had seen beautiful, large, solidly built buildings collapse like matchsticks. Concrete and debris closed off many streets making walking almost a heroic act. But they had to walk to find food. When there was a lull in the bombing they went to Rynek Glowny. The marketplace, once active with throngs of people and stalls ladened with fruit and vegetables stood empty now except for scattered corpses. Some bodies huddled by the selling stalls trying to protect themselves from the onslaught. Horses fell, still attached to their overturned wagons. A mother covering her baby's body with her own, trying to shield it from the falling terror, in vain. Limbs sprinkled on the flagstone floor: a hand, an arm, shoes, as if a paper bag containing toys had torn and its contents had dropped on the courtyard floor. Mama buried her head in papa's shoulder to stifle her screams at the sight of the carnage. Mama told me all thought of food disappeared as they trudged back to town. To add to the scene they had just left, they came upon another surreal scene. Dazed people wandering aimlessly around looking for family survivors among the destroyed houses. The detritus of peoples' lives scattering in the wind. Someone's handkerchief, a small sock, a kerchief floated like feathers in the air. 

A month later, on September 30, Poland succumbed. The Nazis defeated the country as easily as erasing a word from a page. The victorious Germans goose-stepped down the main streets of Krak?w in all their arrogant glory, cheered by the Poles, especially the young who had such a high opinion of Hitler. To show their appreciation and goodwill, the Germans threw loafs of bread into the crowd. Mama and papa separated so that each could try to get a loaf. The applauding hordes shouted "Heil Hitler" as they grabbed the bread. Thankfully, my parents each got a loaf and hurried away. They made their way to my grandmother's house to share the bread with her. 

The Germans would not be this charitable again. It wasn't long before the Jews felt the wrath of the Nazis. But they weren't the only ones. Too many Poles were willing accomplices sucking up to the Germans like a bunch of sycophants, parroting all their ideas. Papa said that numerous people, particularly students even joined the Waffen SS. 

"Can you imagine," papa asked, "a person who might have been your doctor or dentist, even a friend or neighbor, could now be wearing the uniform of death?" 

Within days of Nazi control, food lines were established. Price lists for bread, potatoes, cabbage and other items were posted. The cost of these went up weekly. Bread, for instance, had been 25 groszien (25 cents) had gone to 50 groszien, then to a zloty (a dollar) within a matter of weeks. Meat was never listed. It was never available. 

Conversations no longer were heard; laughter was a distant memory. Streets became deserted since Jews caught walking would be seized and forced to work at meaningless, backbreaking tasks like digging ditches or filling puddles of water with sand. 

Jewish bakeries were only allowed to bake bread. Mama got up at five in the morning and waited on line until the bakery opened at seven. If the bread was gone by the time she reached the front of the line, she waited until the next batch was baked at four in the afternoon. 

We still had potatoes and mama made it various ways for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sometimes we'd have a treat when we were able to get a piece of herring. 

Nazis patrolled the food lines. In many cases they'd pull Jews off the lines and if they perceived a look they didn't like, they'd get beaten, shot if they happened to stumble. 

My parents told me, every week the deranged Nazis came up with more regulations to make life unbearable for the Jews. One day they were forbidden to trade in manufactured goods, leather or textiles. If they had something to sell, it could only be sold to Christians, who were not allowed to buy from Jews. And Jews were banned from purchasing anything. 

September 13th, just before the High Holy days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, an order went out that all stores had to be kept open on those days and synagogues were to be closed. Not being able to pray on the holiest days of the Jewish calendar was tragic especially to the residence of Kazimierz who were mostly orthodox Jews. Even the most impious people know what consolation prayer can be to believers. Papa told me my uncles Avruhm, Henek and Chil came to our apartment to pray together. But then there were rumors that the Nazis burst into Jewish homes and if they were caught praying they'd be dragged out into the street and beaten, so they couldn't even pray without heart-pounding fear that soon there might be a knock on the door. 

Beatings were becoming increasingly common. Even three-year-old children were being kicked. One particular day, all Jews were ordered to line up in the town square to be registered, but no one knew for what. A young woman tried to hide her six-year-old son by standing in front of him. A Nazi caught sight of what she was doing and it enraged him. He grabbed the child by its feet and swung him back and forth, so that his head kept hitting the wall of the building until he died. The mother screamed, begging for mercy, for them to stop. Another Nazi complained she was making too much noise and giving him a headache. He drew his revolver and shot her in the head. 

Looting had also increased with alarming regularity. Papa's store had been vandalized, the window had been broken, fabrics taken and the sewing machine had been smashed. 

New rules established separate food lines for gentiles and for Jews. Jews were allowed half of what the gentiles received. But both gentile and Jew were so hungry, many times they ate what they had just received instead of saving some of the food to last each day until the next rations. If they ate all they had they would beg, scrounge and look in trash bins until the next meager rations were given out. 

A week later another edict proclaimed no food rations would be given for children under ten or the elderly. All others would receive rations for 1.9 kilos of bread to last seven days. My parents worried about my grandmother, Ruchel. They decided to try to get a little more food so they had enough to share with her. With mother's medium brown hair styled in a bun at the nape of her neck, her hazel eyes speckled with gold, high cheekbones and straight nose, she thought it would be possible to pass herself off as a Pole and go on the non-Jewish food line for ration cards. 

Although the gentiles were as confused as the Jews at the rapid changes taking place since the Nazi invasion, there were subtle differences between the two. The way they carried themselves, the lack of fear, the feeling of belonging. Hela knew, in order to carry out the deception, she would have to adopt the same confident demeanor. Mother had seen Tanya occasionally queued for food and they had exchanged pleasantries like old friends. As the food shortages became more prevalent, their exchanges had become briefer and not as warm as they had once been. People were hungry, less patient, busy lining up and waiting, for hours, for a little food. One day when mother saw Tanya on a food line, she went over and told her she would stand with her on the Christian line to get some more rations. She told Tanya how frail her mother, Ruchel, had become she had barely enough strength to stand. She certainly was unable to stand on line for hours. Mama wanted to get a little more food for her and for us. 
"If I'm with you I won't feel so intimidated by them," mama said nodding her head towards the guards. Thinking if she were with Tanya she would have someone to speak with, and would seem unconcerned should the guards scrutinize her closely. If she were alone she was certain her fright would show and she would be discovered. Tanya didn't answer, she just shrugged her shoulders in indifference. Mama thought it was strange her acting so coldly, but dismissed her behavior to hunger, as she got on line behind Tanya. 

Hela was totally unprepared; could not have imagined it. Tanya signaled the guard, pointed her finer at my mother. "JUDE" she said. Mama turned white with panic. She left the line and started running away. The guard caught up to her and grabbed mama by the arm and shoved her so hard, she fell to the ground. He screamed obscenities, beating her with his stick and kicking her in the ribs as she tried to get up. She glanced at Tanya as she finally got up but the expression on Tanya's face chilled her to the marrow. Tanya turned her back to mama without a backward glance. 

The girl everyone had come to love and considered family. Memories of the times the two of them sat late into the night talking liked school friends sharing secrets. Could this be the same person who was so distraught when I scalded myself and took turns sitting vigil with the rest of the family watching over me until the crisis was over? Had it been just a few months ago? What had gone wrong? When did she change? Had she believed all the propaganda, all the slurs, the insults, the lies? Living with us all this time, hadn't she known the untruths being spread? Had her family pressured her to distance herself from us? How did mama miss the signs? Mama ran home so shaken she could hardly speak. Papa made mama lie down and put cold compresses on her eye which had begun to swell. 

My father was not a demonstrative person, yet I sensed. As my parents told me about this event, how profoundly Tanya's betrayal had wounded them. As father pictured the episode in his mind's eye these many years later, his eyes welled up at the memory. But, of course, she had been only the first of many trusted friends to reject us. It heightened my parent's awareness, perhaps for the first time, of just how precarious their position was. People we had known for years suddenly avoided us like they would avoid poison. Customers who over the years came to be considered friends stopped coming to the shop. Maria and Tadeuz Karczewski, friends and neighbors for some fifteen years with whom my parents shared many a meal. The Karczewskis who had come to our celebrations and had invited us to theirs, suddenly crossed the street and pretended not to see us when we passed by. 

The SS instituted widespread pogroms and mass executions. People were neither safe out in the street, nor in their homes. In the middle of the night the SS pounded on apartment doors with their rifle butts demanding to be let in. Anyone who resisted was shot. 

Almost every day the SS stormed into apartments robbing people's belongings. If there was nothing of value to take, the storm troopers consoled themselves by destroying what little the inhabitants had. The day a German officer and two policemen barged into our apartment, they asked how many people lived here, if we had radios. They looked into the other room, into the wardrobes. We stood helplessly by as they grabbed garments from closets, slashed them with their knives and threw the rags they had made of our treasures, in a heap on the floor. They took the radio and a down quilt and left. Yet, we considered ourselves lucky they had only destroyed our clothes and had taken what they wanted and left us alone. We had heard rumors of the SS forcing themselves into apartments, not only destroying possessions but also dragging family members out and throwing them in jail. They were never to be heard from again. 

All over the country, Nazi sympathizers put up anti-Jewish propaganda posters like the disgusting portrayal of a repulsive unshaven crooked-nosed Jewish butcher holding a rat by its tail, sticking it in a meat grinder. Another drawing showed a milkman adding water from a washtub to a can of milk. These drawing and others like them were accompanied by insulting texts. The Polish population was bombarded with these depictions of Jews. Many people, who bought their thinking ready-made each morning at the newspaper kiosks, believed everything they read. 

One day, after staying on a food line for hours, mother came home so pale father was sure she was ill. She described what happened in the street just as she was walking home. A uniformed German officer went over to an old Jew who was standing near a building. The officer gave him some unreasonable order. The Jew tried to explain something with an embarrassed expression. Soon other Germans came by and started beating him up. Then they called for a car and tried to shove him in it. The old man resisted. So one officer took a rope and tied his legs with it and with the other end of the rope he tied to the back of the car. He told the driver to start driving. The Jew's face hit the sharp rocks on the street and soon they were covered with the man's blood. Mother stood and watched as the car disappeared, the old Jew bouncing on the street like a rag. 

Stefan Zytko, a man who repaired old sewing machines and with whom papa had developed a good and close friendship ever since father worked for Moishe, came over one day to warn papa the Nazis were ordering Jews out of their apartments, giving them five minutes to pack their belongings and leave. They were placed in wagons and taken away. Anyone who could not fit into the wagon was forced to run alongside. Mothers carrying small children, some with two or three, in their arms, ran after the wagons. Even the elderly had to run, chased by the SS and their vicious German Shepherd dogs by their side. Anyone who fell or could not keep up was shot. 
"I wanted to let you know, maybe you should hide until this blows over." Stefan said. 
Papa was very grateful to Stefan for pre-warning us. Thank God for friends like him. At least one Pole has not turned against us. We rushed to my grandmother's house and together with her and Hendl we hid in the woods for several hours. We were very lucky not to have been caught as we found out three days later. 

The Germans caught a couple hiding in the woods with false papers identifying them as gentiles. This was a very serious offense and the Germans wanted to make an example of them. The Nazis marched the man and woman into the center of town, ordered everyone to come out and watch to see what happened to anyone who disobeyed orders. They made the two strip naked. They broke the woman's bones of both hands and feet. Shoved a hose up the rectum of the man and turned up the ice cold water with such force his intestines burst. 



















Chapter Seven 


David stood by the window of his darkened apartment overlooking the large promenade where he and Hela used to take long leisurely walks. Visions of scenes he witnessed in Berlin invaded his thoughts. Memories of conversations he had had with Josef in Berlin just a short while ago came back to him. He had seen thugs in the streets of Berlin and other places. They were drunk with power and thought themselves superior because they were together. And being together they discovered domination and wanted to inflict pain. They would not stop soon; they liked the violence too much. The intense hatred, the vicious lies, the imprisonments. They attributed to us an evil they have invented, promulgated the evil in us, then wanted to kill us for it. Who could have possibly guessed they would treat us like bugs, to be squashed out underfoot? No, David was sure this evil would not be over soon. 

His reflections brought him back to the changes taking place in his own country. Poles who had been life-long friends were suddenly unavailable. They did not want to be seen in Jewish company. He didn't blame them really. They had too much to lose. Posters everywhere warned Poles that anyone assisting Jews by transporting, hiding, giving them a piece of bread or a glass of water would be shot on the spot. People were punished by execution or hanging for failing to report Jews in hiding. 

Germans imposed new rules and restrictions at a dizzying pace. They announced every Jew over thirteen years old had to register at the police station for work. Anyone failing to do so would be shot. Papa told me he refused to register and wouldn't let mama register either. 
"We had to consider what would happen to you if they sent us both to forced labor." 
Besides, he had heard that the registration was a ruse to get Jews in one place. Once at the police station they would be jailed over night and in the morning the weakest were marched to some location and shot. The people who were sent to the labor camps had been worked until they died from exhaustion. 
"Let them come and get me. I won't make it easy for them." Papa said. Because of this decision, my parents stayed off the streets as much as possible. They only ventured out to get food. Even staying home was dangerous because of random visits by the SS. For that reason my parents were prepared to run and hide as soon as they learned of such raids. To further complicate matters, the rumor mills worked overtime. Every time someone heard of impending searches, usually in the middle of the night, word spread like wildfire and my parents would grab me, run into the woods and hide until the danger passed. On one such night, we hid in the forest for two days, jumping at every sound, the slightest movement. When we finally went back home, we found it had been a false alarm. The choking fear of imminent danger, the running, the hiding, it kept all of us off balance. How long could we keep doing this before we made a mistake, before our luck would run out? 

Ghettos were being established in Lodz, Warsaw and other places in the most terrible areas they could find. Jews expelled from Germany were crammed into spaces that were already incredibly overcrowded. Ten or twelve people would be packed into a small apartment. Periodically, the Nazis rounded up people, made them stand on line for hours, in all kinds of weather, while they, in their immaculate uniforms, well fed, shaved and perfumed, loomed over the Jews, taking their time selecting people for deportation. No one knew where they would be deported to but assumed it was to labor camps. No sooner were these people gone when a new trainload of people replaced them in the ghetto. There always seemed to be shortages of everything, especially weeks before the transfers occurred. The theory was the Nazis were starving the Jews so there would be less resistance to the relocations. 

Father told family and friends they had to leave, to run away, to hide. To do everything possible to save themselves while there was time, before a ghetto was established in Krak?w. Friends who had assimilated into Polish society greeted his warnings with skepticism reminding papa of their important positions and their powerful friends and connections. Anti-Semitism was as old as time and almost a religion to some. Events were admittedly worse then they had been recently in Poland, but anti-Semitism always flowed and ebbed. "This will pass," he was told. They said people were too sophisticated and urbane to believe all the propaganda promulgated and were certain their friends would not harm them and probably come to their aid if necessary. Father was not convinced. We were leaving, he declared. We were not going to be put into a ghetto. 

Russia had broken a non-aggression pact with Poland and occupied its eastern areas. Many Polish Jews believed in the socialist system of government. They thought it was just and fair. Moishe, the man papa had worked for, was sure of it. Early in 1940, he convinced Chil, Avruhm and Henek they would be better off under Russian occupation. At least the Russians weren't harassing the Jews. They could find work there and wait out the war. 
"In Russia everything belongs to the people." Chil said. 
"Sure, in Russia everything is yours, only don't touch." Papa countered. 
"We'll make our way to Lvov and register for work in the coal mines of the Ural mountains." Moishe said. 
"But you can't take Ruchel and Hendl," papa told Avruhm. 
"As soon as we get settled and find a place to live, I'll send for them and Henek will send for Vita and Nusha." 
So it was settled. Mama embraced her brothers and Chil. She could hardly speak. Papa said good-bye, his voice thick with emotion. 
"Until we hear from you, we'll take care of everyone. Don't worry we won't let anything happen to them." Papa told them. 
"David, if everything goes well, you should think about making the trip too." Avruhm said. 
"We'll see what happens. In the meantime we have to get out of Krak?w." 

In March 1941, the Nazis were getting ready to establish ghettos in Krak?w in the Podgotze area. Papa knew if we were leaving, this was the time to go. He was adamant about leaving before the walls went up enclosing us from the outside world. There would be no escaping then. 

My parents had taken the silverware they had, the candelabra, bolts of fabric and other items which would have been too heavy to carry and sold them in preparation for leaving the city. The sewing machine that had not been destroyed, he sold to Stefan Zytko. 

My grandmother, Ruchel, had a stepsister in a small town about 40 kilometers north of Krak?w. This dusty little enclave seemed to be a place where we could live anonymously. A trusted friend gave my grandmother and Avruhm's daughter, Hendl, a ride to the stepsister's home. Thankfully, he could still be counted on. 

Henek's wife, Vita, and their daughter, Nusha, made their way to the town as well. Since Vita had a light complexion and Nusha was blond, they took their chances on public transportation. Vita, dressed in her only remaining suit that still looked elegant, played the role of a confident Pole traveling with her daughter. They had little trouble getting to the town and rented a small room on a non-descript, obscure little street not far from where my grandmother and Hendl were. 

Mama was concerned that my father should have gone with the others to Russia and send for her and me when he was settled. Papa wouldn't hear of it. 
"I pray they will survive in Russia, but don't fool yourself, Hela, Russia is no promised land. They'll have a rough time there. What if they can't send for their families? What if I couldn't send for you? No, we're staying together, whatever happens, happens." 

My parents took the narrow back streets and alleyways. It was very cold and wearing heavy coats and boots made walking quickly cumbersome especially since papa was carrying me on his shoulders and mama had a small valise stuffed with as much of our belongs as would fit in it. Mama packed the jewelry papa had bought for her on his many trips to Europe. Luckily, she had the foresight to have hidden it well so the Nazis never found it when they barged into our apartment. The beautiful embroidered tablecloths and linens she had made in preparation for her marriage had somehow escaped the Nazi scrutiny. Anything of value light enough to carry that could be bartered for food or shelter was taken. As they walked, mama told me, for the first time she truly came to realize they were leaving a way of life behind. Brutal as it was since Hitler's invasion, deep down she had hoped the war would not last long, that the Russians would be able to defeat Hitler and the world she had known would soon return. But as the distance from her home widened, she knew nothing would ever be the same. Her brothers had gone. God only knew what was in store for them. Her mother, exhausted and frail from hunger. Family and friends scattered like chaff in the wind. 

Listening to my parents, these many years later, I can close my eyes and imagine their hearts covered in darkness and despair. Yet, sitting in their comfortable, middle-class home, can I even come close to understanding the difficulty, the heart-pounding fright those times must have been for them? In 1941 my mother was 28 years old, my father, 31. I think back to when I was 28 and know I cannot even fathom their ordeal. 

Mama pleaded to stop and rest, but papa would not allow it until we reached the safety of the woods. Finally, papa selected a tree that shielded us from view and we rested there for a while. It had been difficult to get up and get going again, but staying too long in one place was dangerous. 

As if our prayers had been answered, we heard the clopping of horses pulling a wagon in the distance. We hid behind some boulders until my parents could see who was coming. It was a lone farmer. My parents decided to take a chance. Papa came out from behind the boulder and ran toward the farmer waving his hands. Papa asked him for a ride pointing to mama and me. The farmer studied us for a minute or two, I guess trying to decide what to do. As he looked in all directions we began to think we had made a terrible mistake. But when he was satisfied no one was around, he told us we could sit in the back of the wagon. We sat with our feet dangling down. The man took the reins in his hands and made a clucking sound with his tongue and hit the horses with a whip and we started to move. 

It was a relief for my parents to sit down and put the bundles down for a while. Our spirits lifted as we watched the white puffy clouds roll by and listened to the wheels turning and the horses trot. When the man reached his destination, we got off and thanked him profusely. The farmer looked down at the money father gave him. At first we thought he wanted more, and when father reached into his pocket, the farmer shook his head. 
"Be very careful," he said. "These are dangerous times, you could be killed and your money taken anyway. Be careful what you do." 
We stood watching him as he rode away, tears filling my mothers eyes. "On dobry pan." ("A good man.") mama said. It took us well into the 
night to walk the 40 kilometers to the town. Vita had rented a small room for us in the same building where she and Nusha were staying. 

Hunger continued to be a major concern. In this small town, surrounded by farms, food could be purchased on the black market. Farmers were ordered to give 85 percent of what was harvested to the Nazis, the rest was to feed themselves and their families. Any querns the farmers may have had had been taken away to prevent them from making flour for bread. Inspections were carried out unannounced and if querns or food were found hidden, the entire family would be put to death. Nevertheless, farmers found ways around this. Some hid enough to sell on the black market, but at great risk and expense. Therefore, most days we lived on watery soup made with some onions and potatoes if we could get some, thickened with a little scorched flour and a slice of black bread. Our stomachs were very often upset from eating rotten food and bread made with flour which had strange additives like ground bone or plaster dust to make it go farther. 

Another worry was keeping our identity a secret. No one knew how long the war would last, but things did not look promising for an early end. Father knew having money was the key to survival and he didn't want to spend what resources they had or sell the few items they had brought with them. Father wanted to save those things for the time when he would be unable to earn money. Perhaps we would need to run away again or need help. In the meantime, my parents wanted to work. Yet tailoring was considered a Jewish profession. We wanted to be as anonymous to our neighbors as possible. We had heard rumors that the Nazis were now looking for Jews who may have escaped to little towns. We didn't know how true these rumors were but we didn't want the neighbors to grow suspicious and turn us in. Yet they felt they had to do something to earn a little money. 

After much consideration, my parents decided to take a chance and do simple alterations like hemlines and taking in or letting out waists. My parents didn't think this would attract too much suspicion. Nevertheless, everyone was vigilant for the overly inquisitive neighbor. We wanted to be thought of as Poles, but coming from religious homes, it must have caused my family so much pain looking in the mirror, hoping our features did not reveal the heritage we were so proud of. 

Although the Nazis had confiscated all radios and owning one was a sure way of getting a bullet in the head, papa had to have one. He bought it on the black market and kept it under the bed. In the evening he'd turn it on very low and mama and he listened intently for any news about the war. The news was discouraging. Was there to be no end to German victories? 

Adding to our misery was the cold and rain in April. There may have been one or two days of sunshine the whole month. Passover came and went without celebration. My parents dared not make the necessary preparations or even look for matzah. 

News of ghetto living reached us through acquaintances. The over-crowding, the starvation and the cold. Dead emaciated, frostbitten bodies lying in the street, covered with newspapers until they were carted away. It had become so commonplace to see corpses on the streets, people had become inured to it. Each morning the bodies were hauled away, dumped on trucks and thrown in pits. 

Then in 1942 we heard about people being taken away and mysteriously disappearing. Rumors were spreading about death camps; that people were being moved from the ghettos to be exterminated in gas chambers and burned in large ovens. No one believed it, couldn't believe it, yet people kept vanishing. At our most paranoid, we could never have believed that someone, a person, a human being could have thought up something like this. Later, after the war, we learned about the soap produced in Krak?w from "clean Jewish fat," the mattresses made of Jewish hair and lampshades from Jewish skin. We heard they used a grinder for grinding human bones. What normal person could believe these things had been done; what kind of mind, what kind of savage could have conceived these fiendish things? 

One day, a friend of Vita's told us he had gone back to Krak?w looking for his relatives. Everyone he knew was gone, deported. What he found astounded him. People who managed to escape deportation walked around in a disoriented daze, so thin, they looked like walking skeletons. Homes had been smashed, windows broken. Everything riddled with bullets. He told us since 
the city was now "Judenfrie" (free of Jews), Germans were 
mounting an all out effort searching the suburbs, small towns and 
villages for Jews. They took their snarling German Shepherd's and 
Doberman's to sniff out people hiding in the woods and 
surrounding areas. Everyone captured was then taken to death 
camps. Sick people were put to death immediately. Others were worked to death. Even people who were hospitalized where forced to leave. Those who were too ill to move the Nazis shot. While still others were used for so-called medical experiments. We knew we had to leave this town now and hide from the Nazis. But how and where? No matter where we went, the SS and their dogs were sure to find us. We were terror stricken. 

Roman Gdanski, a Jewish bachelor lived across the yard when we arrived in this small town. He had become a close and trusted friend who shared food with us when he was able to get some and played with Nusha, Hendl and me. He also realized it was no longer safe for us to stay out in the open. We had to hide from the Germans before they found us. And it had to be where their dogs could not sniff us out. He contacted some gentile friends whom he still trusted and arranged for Vita to hide in one family's home. Since Nusha, Vita's daughter, was blond she could easily pass as a Christian child. She would be able to go to school and lead as normal a life as the circumstances allowed. Roman knew a Polish widow who was willing to take Nusha and raise her as her own. Vita agonized about leaving Nusha but in the end decided Nusha would be better off with the widow. Nusha, only four years old, was given strict behavioral instructions and told the things she must keep secret from everyone, said good-bye to her mother and the only family she had ever known. Roman had one other friend whom he had trusted implicitly who had a good hiding place in his attic and offered it to Roman. 

Papa thought of who was left that he could trust to help us and decided that Stefan Zytko could be approached. After all, because of his warning we were able to escape the house-to-house roundup of Jews in Krak?w. Stefan and papa had been good friends for so many years, surely Stefan was one of the very few people he could still trust. Father could not, however, ask Stefan to hide five people in his home. It would have been much too dangerous for all concerned. 
Suddenly visions of Tanya entered his mind. Could Stefan turn out to be the same? Still, who else was there to trust? He had promised Avruhm he'd take care of his daughter and mother. 

We made our way back to Krak?w through back streets and alleys, my grandmother, Ruchel, Hendl, mama, papa and me. We looked around with unbelieving eyes at the carnage that had taken place. Furniture, clothes, strewn all over the streets. Windows knocked out, doors smashed. We went back to our apartment on 26 Ulica Krak?wska. Papa was fairly certain we would be safe there since the Nazis had already gone through everything thoroughly. The apartment was a disaster. Broken glass everywhere, floorboards ripped up, walls riddled with bullet holes. But for now it was as safe a place as we could hope for. While we all stayed at the apartment, papa went to Stefan. 
"My God, David, you're alive." Stefan said. 
After a few minutes of catching up on events, papa hesitantly asked if he would hide my grandmother, Ruchel, and Avruhm's daughter, Hendl, in his home. This had been the test. Stefan could call the SS now and all would be over. Father held his breath while Stefan considered the request. It was a big decision, it could mean death if they were discovered. Stefan's face brightened as if he had just solved a puzzle. He said, "yes" I know just where they could hide in a moment if the Germans should ever come to search and showed the space to papa. Stefan assured him that Ruchel and Hendl could stay as long as necessary. Father ran back to the apartment to get grandmother and Hendl and we went back to Stefan's house. Father paid him a large sum of money to cover expenses for food and to compensate him for his trouble. Satisfied that my grandmother and Hendl would be protected, we said our sad good-byes and thanked Stefan for being so kind. 

We had no idea what we would do since we knew no one else we absolutely trusted. We would have to take our chances and hide as best as we could, but my parents were so relieved that my grandmother and Hendl would be safe. 

We left at dawn keeping mostly to the back roads and the woods. I walked as much as I could, but the days in July 1942 were hot. Father carried me whenever I got tired, and both carried the bundles with our 'treasures'. The evening hours were the most dangerous because of curfews. When the sun set, we hid in the woods until nightfall. Then waited in the shadows of a farm until we were sure the family was asleep. I have always remembered hiding between rows of vegetable plantings, picturing huge lettuce and cabbages shielding us from sight. In reality, however, my parents told me we very quietly sneaked into the barn and slept on the hay with the animals, huddled together to keep warm. Just before sunrise, before anyone in the house woke, we left the barn and very quietly walked away, hoping the dog would not start barking and alert the household. During the day we ate the bread we had taken with us and supplemented this with wild berries we picked in the woods. 

The days were hot and humid and my parents were wary of fleeing again. Unlike a year ago, this time we had no destination. We had no idea where we would wind up. The danger was also greater because the Germans were infuriated that some Jews were able to escape their clutches. The all-out hunt for these Jews took on a deadly seriousness. 

On the second day, some distance from town, father decided to approach some farmers and ask them for a hiding place. We were taking an awful chance because we could not know if they would call the Gestapo. We were lucky that these particular farmers did not, but neither did they want to hide us. They didn't even offer us a piece of bread or anything to drink. We spent several days on the road like this, hiding in barns or fields at night. Whenever we passed a farm and saw farmers working, my parents tried to judge if they could chance approaching them. They walked up to them and begged for a hiding place, offering money and help with chores in return. The answer was always no. Some gave us a little bread, but most importantly they did not turn us in to the authorities. 

We walked in the woods as much as possible because of the ease to hide, if the need occurred. Our hearts pounded every time we heard an animal make noise or a bird take sudden flight. One day we were sure we heard someone walking in the woods, using a stick to part the vegetation and make a path. We hid behind some dense growth until we heard nothing. Had we timed our escape just right? Were we only days or perhaps hours before the Germans came with their dogs sniffing at our heels? Could we have been this fortunate? 

It is very difficult to understand why things happen the way they do. With so many people killed because their friends and neighbors betrayed them, why were we so lucky? Especially these strangers who owed us nothing, yet not one of the people we approached betrayed us. Why was it that our timing was so impeccable? 

On the fifth day, exhausted, hungry, thirsty and disheartened, we arrived in the village of Gluchow in the province of Kielce. 





Chapter Eight 

Jews have lived in Poland for a thousand years. By the 1930's three and a half million Jews called Poland home, most of whom were unassimilated. They dressed differently, spoke differently and worshipped differently because they wanted to hold onto their heritage and traditions in spite of the fact that anti-Semitism was ripe. It took no special effort for the Poles to conform to Nazi dictates. But mostly fear and self-preservation were the reasons millions of decent, God-fearing people looked the other way, or worse, when the Nazis legitimized the slaughter of Jews. 

Yet, there were those who did not conform. Underground networks of people helped Jews by hiding them or helping them to escape. There is much documentation of resistance groups who smuggled Jews out of occupied lands and of the countries that accepted them. Ultimately, however, and less documented, was the decision made by individuals to help. When a Jew approached an acquaintance or even a total stranger, and asked for help, the choice had to be made at once. There was no time for deliberation; to go home and discuss it with the family and then come back with the determination. It was 'yes' or 'no'. A resolve made in an instant, without consulting anyone. What is more remarkable, these individuals did not think of themselves as heroic. They simply did what they felt they had to do knowing they were taking a tremendous risk and putting themselves and their families in mortal danger. 

Mr. Tomaszkow was such a person. Mr. Tomaszkow owned a large farm in Gluchow. He was also in charge of the village, much like what we would call a Mayor. And like dignitaries who come to an American city are invited to City Hall, dignitaries passing through Gluchow would expect to be invited to Mr. Tomaszkow's home. 

Mr. Tomaszkow was married and had three children, a girl thirteen and two younger children, a boy of about four or five years old and a little girl two or three years old. Living with them also was Mrs. Tomaszkow's father, an elderly gentleman in his 80s. To help with the chores of running their large farm, the Tomaszkow's also had a farmhand who lived in a small room on the premises. 

It was my understanding that the Tomaszkows' were complete strangers. However, Roman Gdanski, the Jewish bachelor whom we had met when we lived in the small town when we left Krak?w, sent me a letter in which he stated that he thought they had been occasional customers of my parents. Whatever the case may be, I know they were not close friends. At most they may have been acquaintances. 

It was summer of 1942, we had been walking for five days when we reached Gluchow and my parents saw Mr. Tomaszkow. They decided to approach him and ask for help. We found to our amazement and profound relief that he agreed without hesitation. Mr. Tomaszkow told us to stay out of sight at the back of the farm until he could make a place ready for us. He expressed his concern that it had to be somewhere that was not frequented often by his farmhand and at the same time not raise suspicion if he were seen in the vicinity on a regular basis. He told us he'd be back after dark when everything was ready. We waited so long for Mr. Tomaszkow to come back we started to fear that he had turned us into the Gestapo. With each minute that passed dread gripped my parents' hearts. "Should we run? Should we wait?" The uncertainty of what to do made it had to breath. "Let's wait another five minutes." Mama started gathering up our belongings getting ready to leave when we heard footsteps. Mama took me to her side and we crouched behind a bush. Mr. Tomaszkow appeared and looked around for us whispering our names. Pan (Mr.) Symchowicz, it's okay, it's me. We stood up, my parents' faces glistening with sweat. Mother went over to him, "dziekuje," ("thank you") mama said. He explained he wanted to wait until everyone was asleep. 

The place he provided for us was a lean-to on his barn. The space was approximately six feet long and four feet wide and about four feet high at its highest point. The floor was covered with straw and there were wooden planks about two inches apart that made up the outside wall. I was the only one who would be able to stand at the high end. My parents could only sit or lie down. 

Mrs. Tomaszkow came out to see us and since it was summer, gave us light blankets and a large pot for use as a toilet. Both of them explained that they had a farmhand who was extremely anti-Semitic. They knew he had a brooding personality and worried that he would ask too many questions if he and my father worked together. He also liked his whisky and often became inebriated especially on Saturday nights. He was a loose cannon and it was best if he knew nothing of our existence. The other people who could not know about us were the grandfather and the two younger children. The grandfather because of his age, tended to be forgetful and it was feared he might say something at the wrong time. The two youngest children, also because of their age, could not be trusted with such an important secret. The eldest daughter was the only other person who would be told about us. It was paramount that we not raise any suspicion. There would be times when the Tomaszkow's would be unable to bring us food or to have us empty the pot so that the wrong eyes would not see any increased activity. The same would be true if visitors came like family members or neighbors and especially if the German or Polish police passed through the village and stopped for food and drink and to rest their horses. He further explained that because he was in charge of the village, he sometimes had meetings held in his home. They stressed there would be many times when they would be unable to bring us food and water. My parents assured the Tomaszkows' we understood the difficulties that we would experience and how appreciative we were for having a place to hide. A set of signals had been decided on; a cough meant 'all clear' to take out the pot to empty it. Whistling meant they were bringing food. My mother was elected to be the intermediary because she was much shorter than my father and would be able to move around with more ease. 

The plan was that mother would work in the house helping Mrs. Tomaszkow with cooking and cleaning. Father could not help Mr. Tomaszkow because he would have to work closely with the farmhand, and since papa knew nothing about farming which would be quite evident to the farmhand, arousing suspicion. So father stayed with me in the lean-to. Mother was passed off as a Polish widow from a neighboring village who needed work and Mrs. Tomaszkow hired her to help with household chores. If this worked out, it would also be easier to bring food, since mother would spend the nights with us. 

When all the details had been established, we settled in as best we could and Mr. Tomaszkow closed the door of the lean-to and started covering up the planks and the spaces with hay. This was necessary, of course, but uncomfortable because now there was no breeze or fresh air coming in and in the daytime there would be limited light as well. As he enclosed us, it felt as if we were being buried alive. It was safer here than running in the countryside, but still we wondered if we had traded one tomb for another. Finally, Mr. Tomaszkow finished placing the hay, and all was quiet. 

The first day mother went to Mrs. Tomaszkow's home to start work she was introduced to the family as someone who would come each day to help with chores around the house. Of course, the eldest daughter knew who my mother really was, but the two other children and the grandfather accepted her at face value. This was the easy part. The real test would come when neighbors or the Germans paid the Tomaszkow's a visit. The wait was not long. The second week mother worked there, four Germans came through town and stopped at the Tomaszkows'. Both women were very apprehensive. Mother served food and drinks but they didn't seem to notice her. They were busy talking and laughing, with a relaxation instilled from being officers in a dominant army. Mrs. Tomaszkow and mother held no such positions, but they nonetheless had to mimic the mood. It had all gone very smoothly and when the Germans finally left, they both gave a nervous sigh of relief. After that things settled down to a routine. Mother came to the barn at night and at Mr. Tomaszkow's 'all clear' signal, she emptied the pot and then stayed with us for the night. In the morning she went over to the house. It looked as if everything would work out as they had planned. 

Mother had an easier time during the next several weeks. She was kept busy with housework and she had the companionship of the Tomaszkow family to fill her days. Father and I didn't fare as well. We had nothing to do all day and to top it off we had always to remember to be very quiet. Father read to me from the couple of books we had brought with us. Once we read one, we closed it and opened the other, back and forth, until I could recite them from memory. We took a lot of naps, as well. But the one thing that kept us both sane was having father tell me stories of his trips to the cities of Europe. He loved telling them and I loved hearing all about the cities he had visited. I pictured, in my mind's eye, images of people dressed up in their finest clothes, elegant and happy, going to theatres and parties. When father tired of talking, I sat in the corner of the lean-to and pretended that I was a little girl living a life of privilege in these cities. I fantasized having a lot of friends with whom I went to school and with whom I played games afterwards. Then we waited for mother to come back into the barn and hoped she had food for us. We listened to her recount her day while we nibbled on the piece of bread she brought. Sometimes she whispered children's stories and fairytales to me, sometimes she sang lullabies very softly. My parents tried very hard to make life bearable for me. During the day it was unbearably hot especially when the sun hit the lean-to. The hay on the planks kept out even the slightest breeze. Making it worse was the sweat, the foul smells, the hunger and thirst, even the dim light was an irritant. Most of all after just a couple of weeks pain throughout father's body, from lack of exercise and always being in the same positions had been increasing. 

One time when mother came from the house, she told papa the rumors Mr. Tomaszkow heard about people from the ghettos being deported to Auschwitz in escalating numbers and much more frequently than before. Kazimierz, the Jewish section of Krak?w was a ghost town. Buildings and stores destroyed. In the early morning, machine guns could be heard in the distance. The Polish police and the Gestapo were looking for Jews everywhere. They machine gunned homes, attics, cellars. Blood could be seen sprayed on walls, bodies left where they fell. It was as if they were in a hurry to annihilate everyone in the ghettos. At this time no one knew what happened to these people except that they were never seen again. 

Papa asked Mr. Tomaszkow if he could find out about his parents, his brothers and his sister. Mr. Tomaszkow said he'd be in Krak?w in a week and would try to find out about them. 

Just as we were getting used to the routine, there was increased activity by the Germans. Visits had become more frequent and they seemed a lot more serious than they had been previously. 

One day two of the German dignitaries revisited the Tomaszkow's home. They came on horseback riding up the main path towards the house. Their spotless uniforms with rows of medals on their chests sparkling in the mid-day sun. Their bodies, well rested and erect in the saddles, hats in perfect position, their riding boots spit polished to a mirror sheen. Their well fed faces evincing confidence and arrogance. What a contrast these vainglorious men were to the people of the land they conquered who barely had enough to fill their stomachs, shabbily dressed and exhausted. This particular day, they took special notice of my mother. They had not seen her before and were suspicious of who she was and where she had come from. They began asking questions. 

The panic engulfing my mother was indescribable. If she showed any sign of nervousness or suspicion, it would all be over. Not only was she living a lie to protect her family, she now had to do it with the utmost perfection under this extreme pressure. The Germans watched mother carefully as they catechized and visited, observing her reactions and body language. They scrutinized her thoroughly for any signs of nervousness or faltering. The stress they caused mother to endure during their 'casual' interrogations was brutally harrowing. As befitted a servant, she kept her answers polite but succinct, letting Mrs. Tomaszkow fill in the gaps as she felt necessary. Yet, she knew she had to look them in the eye and speak in a sure, strong voice if she was to carry off the deception. Mrs. Tomaszkow had to do a perfect acting job as well. She answered all their questions matter-of-factly. When the tension started to build in such a way that even she began to feel the choking fear, she cleverly ordered mother to do something that required her to leave the kitchen in an attempt to stop the questioning and the increased curiosity the Germans displayed. 

Mrs. Tomaszkow was relieved to see the Germans turn their attention to other matters as soon as mother left. It is said without fear, there cannot be courage, as courage is putting aside your fear and doing what you must. Mr. Tomaszkow showed his courage the day he took us in. This day, Mrs. Tomaszkow and mother showed theirs. But this had been too close and unnerving. The Germans together with the Polish police and even the youth who had joined the Waffen SS were determined to root out every Jew and the distrust was mounting. The Tomaszkow's decided it was no longer safe for mother to work in the house. It simply was too dangerous. From that time on, mother stayed with my father and me in the hope of not fueling any more suspicion of herself and the Tomaszkows'. Had the two women not been such good actresses, it would have been the end for us all. 

It was just as well we could not foretell the future. Had we known how long it would be before we could emerge from our hiding place, I don't think any of us could have endured it. My parents were not able to stand up, pace or look out of a window. They could only sit or lie down. Their bones and joints hurt from being immobile. They sat on one side, then on the other; the lied down first on one side, then on the other, and finally on their stomachs. And so they changed their positions day in and day out. Father's knee joints locked at times from being in one position too long. This happened with increasing regularity and increasing pain. Muscles in his legs cramped as well, and the pain was dreadful. Mother at least moved once or twice a day, to get food or take out the pot on the assigned signals. Father could do nothing to change his few positions. 

When there was nothing to do, we slept much of the time. Although our dreams were bad, it was still better than being awake. But many times sleep would not come. 

Thankfully, Mrs. Tomaszkow asked my parents to do hems or mend cloths and sheets for the family. Had she not done so, my parents would have died of boredom with nothing to do all day, and the degradation of our sordid surrounding would have been even harder to accept. And so we settled in, reconciled to stay in this jail as long as necessary. That first summer at the Tomaszkows' I was four years old, my mother 29 and my father 32. It would be two and a half years before we would be able to leave. 

In the summertime, it was so hot in the lean-to, our hands and feet swelled. Breathing was difficult. We couldn't wipe the moisture from our foreheads fast enough. I could follow the sweat running from my head down my back like a rill until it reached my waist. Everything was sticking to us. The straw itched as it clung to our arms, legs, face and back. We kept wishing for just one cool day so we could breathe and get relief from this unbearable heat. 

Between the confined space and no fresh air, the smell of hay, unable to wash and the stench of the bathroom pot, especially in the summer's heat, our stay in the lean-to was terrible. Even though it was our own waste, after a few days these conditions were very hard to get accustomed to. We knew better than to complain, in fact we considered ourselves fortunate to have a hiding place like this, and not have to worry from day to day. Nevertheless, the days and nights were long and the tedium hard to bear. Like everything we had to do, we soon became inured to the conditions we had to live with. 

True to his word, when Mr. Tomaszkow came back from his latest trip to Krak?w he inquired about papa's family. He was able to find out that they had been in the ghetto but had been taken to Auschwitz three weeks earlier. At that time we thought Auschwitz was a labor camp. Nevertheless, the news was not good. 

Whenever they could, the Tomaszkows' gave us updates of events on the outside. Unfortunately, nothing they said indicated that the war would soon be over. The Nazis seemed to plough over all the countries they attacked and seemed stronger than ever. One day, upon his signal mother went out to get the food he had brought. Mr. Tomaszkow related what he had heard in Krak?w. Rumors were rampant that the SS men were burning Jews in Auschwitz. Mother looked at him as if he had just lost his mind. When mother return to the lean-to, I heard her whispering to father with an urgency I rarely heard. Father tried to calm her. 
He said, "How can you believe that, how can it be? It can't possibly be true." 
"But Mr. Tomaszkow said he heard it from reliable people." 
"Maybe they're just spreading these rumors to scare the Jews and keep them off balance, they'll invent anything to do that. This can't be true." 

Late September we had a reprieve from the oppressive heat. But soon the days turned colder. The winter of 1942-1943 was bad. The cold days started in November and reached their most brutal in February. If the heat in the summer made our limbs swell, in the winter, our hands and legs swelled from the cold. It's hard to determine which of the two seasons was worse. High winds and snow accompanied most days. The weather was so raw at times, it went right through to our marrow. Snow coming in from the cracks covered the hay in our lean-to, the blankets were stiff from the frost. We only had the light blankets Mrs. Tomaszkow gave us when we first came and the summer clothes we had been dressed in. They were hardly enough to keep us warm against the Polish winters. We huddled together trying to get warm from each other's body heat, but we could not warm up. My parents had me lie between them to have the benefit of both their bodies' warmth, but nothing could stop my shivering. My dress, made of light cotton and short sleeves, did nothing to ward off the cold. The cold and wetness seemed to ooze into every crevice of the lean-to during the winter where no breeze could be found in the summer. Mrs. Tomaszkow gave us an additional light blanket, but said she had no winter blankets to spare. We could feel our fingers and toes freeze. Even on the occasional warm days, the lean-to did not warm up. It was as if it was holding on to the freezing cold, refusing to let any warmth in. We didn't even have the advantage of warming ourselves in sunshine, since there were no windows for the sun to come through. As cold as it was, it seemed colder still due to our low tolerance, brought on by our incessant hunger. Even mice came in from the cold and infested the straw. The first time I saw a mouse, I screamed. Mother promptly slammed a hand over my mouth and we remained still to see if anyone heard me, not daring to breathe. Thankfully, no one had, but again I was given a strong warning to be extremely quiet no matter what. It was a reminder that we were living on borrowed time. 

Lying on the cold, damp hay day in and day out, I developed rheumatism in both knees. I could have predicted the severity of rain or snow we would get more accurately than any weather forecasters by the intensity of the pain in my knee joints. Even humidity in the summertime was painful. Turning this way and that, trying different positions for my legs, wrapping towels around my knees, nothing alleviated the pain. 

My parents still read to me the two books. Occasionally, Mrs. Tomaszkow would lend me a book from her children when she brought things to be mended and they would read from the new book. I spent hours trying to read the way my parents did, asking them how to pronounce words I didn't know. I practiced writing the words I saw in the books. Other times I would sit in the corner and pretend that I was a beautiful movie star or ballerina. I carried on conversations with myself pretending that I was playing games with other children or at a party eating cake and still other times I acted out the stories that were read to me. I sat hunched over whatever books I had for so long, one of my shoulder blades came out. I looked like a hunchback. Naturally, my parents became alarmed. Their quick thinking, however, prevented permanent damage. My mother took a towel she was repairing for Mrs. Tomaszkow and wrapped it around me very, very tightly and fastened it with a safety pin. Then she had me do some kind of exercises with my arms. Because I was so young, after some time, the bone slipped back into place. 

There were times we heard each other's stomach growling from hunger. Mr. Tomaszkow tried to bring us food twice a day, usually black bread and soup, but that was not always possible. Many times I would cry because I was cramped, uncomfortable, filthy and above all hungry. At times I wished I could stick my hand out and grab enough icicles to still my thirst and hunger. My parents saved a little of their bread to give to me. As little as they had, they divided the bread into quarters and allowed one quarter a day in case Mr. Tomaszkow could not bring food. If we did get food, my parents gave me the bread they had saved from the previous day and divided the new bread as they had before. But it was always me that benefited from their frugality. 

We had been so hungry all the time, but suddenly there was an increase in the visits to the Tomaszkow's home by neighbors, family who stayed several days, and German dignitaries came and went more frequently. Even the farmhand had been kept exceptionally busy working around their house. Because of all this, it had been more than a week before Mr. Tomaszkow had been able to bring us food and water. During this time, we just stayed still trying to persevere what little energy we had. My pretensions in the corner of the lean-to where I enjoyed whispering to my make-believe friends, held no attraction for me now, since every time I'd turn my head, the little room would spin, making me dizzier than I already was. 

One day there was a miracle in the barn. A chicken got caught above us, on the roof of the lean-to. She laid a few eggs and two of them fell down into our room. My parents saw the eggs falling and positioned themselves to catch them. What excitement! I can still remember how warm they felt. We took a needle and punctured some holes in the eggs and ate them raw. This was the very best day. Not only did we have a gourmet meal, but also a little fun. 

One time during the summer, as I was playing by myself, we noticed a little light shining through a piece of straw on the planks. Mother walked over and with her finger, made the hole a little larger. She made these little holes in a few places, small enough not to be noticed from the outside, but letting in some air. Then one day I looked out of these holes and saw a strip of blue sky. I was so excited, I moved from hole to hole trying to piece together the sky. At one hole I even saw a tiny bit of white. As I watched it, it moved. I moved to another hole and there it was again! Then I realized it was a cloud. I moved from hole to hole, following the cloud as the breeze moved it. I also saw a tiny patch of a field filled with white daisies. Suddenly a little bird perched itself on the straw outside one of the holes, and in an instant it was gone. How miraculous to be able to fly, to lift oneself and ride on the wind. I ached to be outside, running in the field, playing, and mimicking birds and butterflies. 

The small holes were wonderful because it gave me one more thing to do during the day to occupy my time. Father made it even more exciting by asking me to describe the things I saw. On one such occasion, I asked my parents if I would ever be able to see the sky as a whole instead of just pieces and would I ever be able to walk outside in the fields. I strained to see through the little spaces in the hay all the time. One day as I was talking to my parents my mother noticed something wrong with my eyes. One eye was looking towards Krak?w while the other eye kept looking towards Warsaw. I had become cross-eyed from trying to see the sky in one piece. Mama put a piece of cloth over one eye for a while and then on the other until my eyes were back to normal. The worst part was that it ended my exploration of the outside world. 

My parents kept asking Mr. Tomaszkow if he could find out anything about my grandmother Ruchel and Abe's daughter Hendl who were staying with Stefan Zytko, father's friend. Whenever Mr. Tomaszkow went into Krak?w, he asked about them but could get no news. No one had seen them. The answer had been the same all along. My parents hoped it was a good sign. It meant they were still hiding with Stefan. Mr. Tomaszkow, made it a point to see Stefan Zytko but deliberately did not ask him directly about hiding anyone, fearing he might reveal that he too was hiding Jews on his farm. If Stefan Zytko turned out not to be what he pretended, then the Tomaszkows' and we would have been in grave danger. 

Although father and I had never seen the farmhand, my mother had met him everyday when he came to the house for his meals. Mother told us he was a powerfully built man of medium height with dark hair and small beady eyes and a brooding disposition. Since Sunday was his day off he spent Saturday nights drinking, sometimes alone in his room, other times in a pub in town. On a few occasions he would sleep off his drunken stupor on the roof of the lean-to where he felt no one would disturb him. We always heard him stumbling into the barn, muttering to himself and make his way up to the roof. He fell asleep almost instantly and we could hear him snore. While he sounded as if he could sleep through a train wreck, we were always extremely quiet when he was in the barn. 

One cold autumn day, the farmhand was in a particularly vile mood. He was angry with Mr. Tomaszkow because of some perceived grievance. He had decided not to work that day, and instead spent all day and night on the roof of the lean-to with a bottle of whiskey. We could hear him drinking and muttering to himself. It was very traumatic knowing we could not make the slightest sound. I was so frightened. I wondered if he could hear us breathe, if he could smell the fear in the air. What if we had to go to the bathroom? Would he hear the tinkle? What if we had to sneeze or cough? We were afraid to fall asleep, what if we snored? But we must have fallen asleep and when we woke we weren't sure if he was still up there. We listened closely but did not hear anything. We reasoned he must have gone to his room. Mama kept me close to her and reminded me to keep very still. 
Later that night we heard a cough. Thinking it was Mr. Tomaszkow's 'all's clear' signal, mother took the bucket and went out of the little room. Hearing movement below, the farmhand grunted and struck a match to see who was there. Comprehending the terrible mistake we had made, that the farmhand was still on the roof and it was he who had coughed, mother quickly but quietly pushed herself against the planks. When the farmhand looked out, he could not see directly under him. He looked and looked lighting one match after another trying to see what had made the noise. Mama's heart was thumping, as she stayed plastered against the planks. In his drunken stupor, he probably hadn't realized the danger of lighting matches in a room full of hay near a bottle of alcohol no less. "Please don't let him find us and don't let us burn to death." Was mama's only plea. After what seemed like an eternity, not seeing anything, he decided he must have imagined it, settled back and went to sleep. Mother waited awhile after his last match to be sure he wasn't going to investigate further. Only when she heard the steady breathing of sleep, did she creep through the opening, back into the room and covered it with the hay. Now certain that he would remain until morning, we had to be especially quiet all night not to arouse his suspicion again. We were extremely frightened that night. Every sound we heard, real or imagined, had a pernicious meaning. After what seemed like a lifetime, morning finally arrived and he at last departed. 

When we heard his labored trek down from the roof, all the pent up emotions surfaced. Tears spilled down mama's cheeks, her body trembling. To think how close the looming danger had been. Living under continuous fear day after day. Listing to the voices and footsteps just outside our confinement, not speaking to anyone, not knowing what was happening in the world, all the mental strain was robbing us of our endurance and sanity. 

The inability to wash was another difficulty. Not knowing when we would be given food or water again, we didn't want to chance using the water for washing our clothes or ourselves. So we wore the same dirty things day after day. When it was hot, perspiration seeped into our clothes, our bodies felt clammy, and being on the hay all the time, we felt even dirtier than we actually were. We itched and scratched. We had mice and bugs as companions. Our bodies were bloated from lack of food. I had developed sores on my face and body from lack of air and sunshine and probably vitamin deficiencies. 

But the worst was when I noticed the top of my head itched more than any other part of my body. The more I scratched, the worse it got. I asked my mother if she could see what was causing the itch, and when she looked she almost fainted. I had developed a big scab on top of my head. I couldn't see it but it felt crusty. It was a nest of lice. It was horrible and painful. We started examining each other and that's when we noticed the nits mama and papa had. Mother asked if she could borrow scissors the next time she saw Mr. Tomaszkow. She cut all my hair off so that the lice infestation would not become worse. Trying to prevent further damage, we used the scissors to cut my parents hair wherever we saw a white dot that indicated nits. I cut mother's hair while mother cut father's hair. I don't know if you can picture it, but I can assure you our hair did not look as if it were styled by a Fifth Avenue salon. 
Now we heard increased activity outside. The Tomaszkow's had more visitors. We heard airplanes flying overhead. Papa was optimistic that the war would soon be over. Mr. Tomaszkow had told papa a while ago that the Americans had joined the war. We were so hopeful then, but nothing seemed to change. But now, maybe. 

One day, as mother and I were reading, we heard the sound of boots crunching the earth and horses neighing. Germans must be visiting the Tomaszkows', we thought. All at once we heard the boots coming closer. We stopped reading, holding our breath. Mother and father signaled me to be very quiet but I was frightened and started to cry and shake. Mother took the towels she was mending and stuffed them in my mouth so my sobs would not be heard. I could not catch my breath. "Stop", I wanted to scream, "stop, I'm chocking." I couldn't even tell her that I would be quiet. I could feel tears streaming from my eyes making their way towards my ears before falling silently onto the hay. But she wasn't looking at me and she couldn't hear me. Her eyes were riveted at the planks. 
They had come into the barn. We could picture them in their uniforms and riding britches and high boots polished to perfection. They wanted to feed their horses. They commented on what fine hay this was. We heard one of them coming closer to where we were. He was going to take the hay from the planks. They would be able to see us. We would be discovered. Everything would be lost. We would all die including the Tomaszkows' and their children. Even the farmhand would not be spared. They would never believe he didn't know about us. We quietly moved closer together as far away from the planks as possible. Father started silently saying "Shema Yisroel Adonai Elohainu, Adonai Echod" ("Hear, O Israel, Lord, our God. The Lord is One.") It amazed me that father, in that moment would remember to make peace with God, to express love for Him. But, of course, it made perfect sense. Coming from a religious home as he had, in the remaining minutes of our lives, father had to speak to his God. 

Just as the soldier reached the planks and was about to take the hay, his comrade said, "No, no that's poor hay. Look at this hay on this side, it's much better." We heard him stop. "Okay" he said. And we heard him retreat to the other side. We didn't dare exhale for fear they would hear us. His friend said the words, but to this day I feel it was the hand of God that made them go to the other side for the hay. There was absolutely no reason why we should have lived that day, but it was our fate, our destiny. I have always believed it. By the time they left, I had started turning blue from lack of oxygen. But mother took the towels slowly from my mouth in case I started gasping loudly for air. 






Chapter Nine 

May 1945, Mr. Tomaszkow came running across the field, stumbling, his arms flailing, shouting incoherently. He reached the lean-to and flung the door open, bent over from the exertion, his hands on his knees as he tried catching his breath, speaking and laughing all at once. We thought he had gone mad. Suddenly he shouted so loudly, we all jumped, 
"It's over, It's over. The war is over." He thrust his arms into the air above his head and shouted again, "Don't you understand, it's over! We're free, it's over." 

We looked at him, trying to comprehend, unsure whether to laugh, our jaws just hung open. He couldn't take it any longer. What dunces we were, he must have thought. All at once he grabbed mother's arm and dragged her out of the lean-to and started singing and dancing the Polka. As I looked at him carrying on, there, beyond his shoulder, was the sky in one piece. White clouds, made their way lazily across the sky. I saw birds flying and stopping on tree branches to sing for this glorious day. The sunshine stung my eyes. I put up my hand to shield them from the light. There was a warm breeze coming through the open door. He let go of my mother and reached out his hand to me and said, "Come, come out, it's safe now." As much as I had dreamt of seeing the sky in one piece, I was afraid to trust this good man. He was acting like a lunatic. Father in the meantime turned to look at him, watching him carry-on. He understood what he had been trying to tell us. Father crawled to the open door. Mother stood and looked up and let the sunshine fall on her face. Then with her arms outstretched to the side, she began twirling and twirling. Father sat by the open door smiling and breathing in the beautiful fresh air. Mr. Tomaszkow reached out for my hand and with mother's encouragement, I took my first tentative steps outside. And there they were, the flowers I had seen between the planks, the wild, white daisies all over the large field. I had never seen so many flowers in one place. 
Father tried standing up holding on to the doorjamb to boost himself up, but fell. We turned to watch as once more he tried to stand up and once more fell. 
"What's wrong with my legs?" He asked, looking at us bewildered. 
"What has happened to my legs?" He asked once more, confusion and worry creasing his brow. 
"Have I become a cripple?" he inquired. 
Mr. Tomaszkow was the first to react. 
"You'll be fine," he said with a reassuring smile. 
"Don't you realize you've been sitting for nearly three years? Your muscles are weak, stiff. Don't worry, you'll be fine." 
"But I can't stand let alone walk." 
"You'll do some leg exercises to strengthen your muscles, we'll give you a stick to use as a cane. You'll be okay. But first things first. Come to the house, wash up and let's have something to eat. It's time to celebrate." 
Mr. Tomaszkow and mother help father up and held him under his arms dragging him towards the house, father's legs trailing on the ground behind him like a rag doll. 
We had made it. We survived. All of us. God watched over us for two and a half years and we made it. But it was a bittersweet moment. What had happened to papa's family? Were Ruchel and Hendl safe? What about Nusha, how had she faired? Vita, Henek, Avruhm, Chil, Moishe. What had happened to all of them? We could not celebrate until we saw our loved ones again. 

When we first arrived at the Tomaszkow farm, the hem of the dress I had worn came to my mid-calf. When we emerged from the barn, the hem reached only my knees. 

Later that day, for the first time since we came to the Tomaszkows', we were able to wash ourselves. Mrs. Tomaszkow gave us some kind of special soap for our scalps to take care of the lice and nits. We lathered, scrubbed and washed ourselves. We almost felt human. The Tomaszkow children were in school and I don't know where the farmhand was at this particular time. I'm sure he was not too happy to find out that Jews were hidden under his nose and he knew nothing about it. Mrs. Tomaszkow invited us into the house for something to eat. My mother was able to walk because she went back and forth whenever the signals were given. I was able to walk because I did not have to sit all the time. I was able to stand at the high point of the lean-to. That's where I did all my playacting. But father could not move. The years he spent without moving his legs made them rigid, so now he had to start moving and exercising the muscles before he could start walking. 

The Tomaszkow's kitchen painted white with red and white curtains was warm and inviting. The table was a huge, rustic wooden table covered with a red and white checkered tablecloth. It was the first time in two and a half years we sat on chairs in front of a table and ate like human beings. 
We sat talking and laughing and hugging each other. My parents thanking the Tomaszkows' for being so good to us telling them it was because of them we had survived. Father, with heartfelt gratitude recited to the Tomaszkows' a passage from the Talmud which said in part, "Whosoever preserves a single soul, it is as though he had preserved an entire world." 
"You are good and courageous people and I know there's a special place in heaven for you," father said. 
Everyone was still, reluctant to speak lest our voices betray the emotions we felt. 

The poignant mood was broken when the children came home from school and flung open the front door and scooted into the house, stopping dead in their tracts, dumfounded, when they saw us at the table. Mrs. Tomaszkow explained that we were hidden from bad people who wanted to hurt us, but now the bad people were gone so we didn't have to hide anymore. They sat down next to me, and just stared at us without saying anything. 

It was obvious that we could not leave right away. It would take longer than expected for father to regain his ability to walk. Mr. Tomaszkow let us stay as long as it took. At first father found it very painful and discouraging being able to take only a few steps before he had to stop. Several times a day I took his hand and told him it was time to practice again. Even though he was tired and demoralized I begged him so much, he could not refuse me. We walked together, he with the stick in one hand, holding on to the split rail fence with the other. I walked behind him encouraging him to take one more step. To show him the progress he was making, I wrote on a piece of paper how many steps he took each time he tried. This way he could actually see he was improving and the task was less daunting. It took three months before father had full use of his legs again. During this time we slept in the barn, but we could leave the door open now to let in the breeze. At night, we sat with our backs against the lean-to and looked up at the stars, glistening like crystal hurled all over the black sky. Reluctantly, when sleep overtook us, we went inside and laid down. 

We had our meals with the Tomaszkows' and mother helped Mrs. Tomaszkow in the kitchen, without fear this time. Because we had existed on mostly bread and soup, our empty stomachs could not tolerate food made with fat. We felt nauseas and dizzy. Realizing what was happening, Mrs Tomaszkow gave us smaller portions of very bland food until our system got used to ordinary food. 

When the children came home from school, they gave me a tour around the farm. We picked some of the wild daisies and they showed me how to make crowns for our heads. I went along with them when they had to do their chores and sometimes I sat with them when they did their homework. I had learned to read and was able to follow along when they did their assignments. I was proud of that accomplishment and boasted to my parents about it. 

What kept us from becoming bitter, hardened people was this experience. God knows we saw enough evil in the world. But these people made us realize that the whole world had not gone crazy and that not all Polish people were evil. So we owe the Tomaszkows' not only our survival but also our emotional health. 

Father asked Mr. Tomaszkow to speak to Stefan Zytko the next time he went to Krak?w. Now that the war had ended, he didn't have to fear speaking plainly. Stefan refused to see Mr. Tomaszkow. He said he didn't know anyone named Ruchel or Hendl Richter and he never hid any Jews in his home, as he slammed the door in Mr. Tomaszkow's face. Thinking this was strange behavior of a person who professed to be a friend, Mr. Tomaszkow asked around without much success. My parents were terribly apprehensive. Why wouldn't Stefan admit to hiding them and helping them reunite with us? It was an all consuming quandary and one my father could not let go. He was now convinced that my grandmother and Avruhm's daughter had met with disaster. 

Mother decided to go to Krak?w with Mr. Tomaszkow next time and confront Stefan herself. Several days later, mama knocked on Stefan's door. 
"You're alive." Was the shocked reation of Stefan Zytko when he saw her on his doorstep. 
"Stefan, what happened to my mother and niece? Where are they? 
"I don't know where they are. They didn't like it here and left. I don't know where they went." 
"Stefan, what have you done?" Mother implored him, feeling her knees buckle. A terrible feeling over came her. It was obvious Stefan was lying. Stefan's face turned into an ugly snarl. 
"What do you mean - what are you accusing me of you dirty Jew. Did you think I'd risk my life for you people? Get out of my house." 
Mama clutched her heart as he shoved her out into the street. She felt dizzy. She broke into a sweat as she collapsed on the street. 
"What have we done? Oh, God, what have we done? We trusted this anti-Semite. We sentenced Ruchel and Hendl to death. Oh, God, what will we do?" 
Mr. Tomaszkow saw mother sitting on the street, tears spilling down her cheeks. He rushed over but didn't need to ask what happened. It was all too obvious. He helped mama into the cart. 
"What do you want to do?" He asked. 
"I have to find out what happened. Someone must know something." 
Finally, a neighbor of Zytko's told mama she had seen the Gestapo come to his house early one morning and drag out a woman and a little girl. They took the pair into the woods and shot them. 
It was unbearable for her to have to tell David what had happened. As he listened, he became ashen at the cruelty of a person who he had thought of as a friend all these years. 

As father gained his mobility and we soon would be able to leave, Mr. Tomaszkow went to Skalbmierz, a small town not far from the farm. Through his acquaintances he was able to procure a furnished apartment for us. Pleased with himself for helping us get established, he announced at the dinner table what he had done. As if that was not enough, he had paid the first month's rent. My parents protested, 
"How will we pay you back, we have no money, none." 
"Don't worry, you'll pay me back when you get settled. You'll start working and I'll be on your doorstep with my hand out." he said smiling. 
"Incidentally, you'll need some money in your pocket too. You'll need to get food. You have a lot to do, my friend. You better get started." 

It was difficult saying good-bye to these wonderful people when the time came for us to leave. It was a poignant time for all of us. We could hardly believe we had actually survived. Now we were on our way to try to pick up our broken lives with no money, no home. But we knew, we at least had one friend. In the midst of all the anti-Semitism that was so rampant in Poland, there were still good and decent people like the Tomaszkows'. Not only complicating their own lives by helping Jews against unspeakable cruelty and horror, but risking the annihilation of their whole family, had they been discovered, to make a statement for human decency. 






Chapter Ten 

Skalbmierz, Poland - a small picturesque village, one you would expect to see on a picture postcard sent by tourists with "wish you were here" messages. The clean, neat houses painted a brilliant white. Well-tended penny-size gardens alongside with flowers in brilliant profusion of color. Wide, gently shaded tree-lined streets leading to the center of town. A small railroad station dominated the town square, surrounded by small shops. Green grocers, meat markets, a bakery whose smell of freshly baked breads and pastries permeated the air. The outskirts of town, encompassed by a patchwork of rolling farmland that supplied the local markets, and breathtaking views of distant hills bespoke of peace and tranquility. Yet, beneath this idyllic surface lay an evil of intolerance and small mindedness wrapped in a cloak of piety. 

We arrived mid-morning on a bright, sunny day believing we were liberated, ready to start anew. The apartment Mr. Tomaszkow rented for us was a two-room apartment on the ground floor of a main street in town. The main room had a large table and chairs in front of two windows facing the main street. On the short wall, at the far side of the room was a tiny kitchen. Off this room was a small hallway. On one side was a bedroom with two beds, on the other a bathroom. I loved this apartment. While my mother checked out the kitchen, I ran to the window and looked out. I could see the houses across the street, the clear blue sky, the birds flying from one tree branch to another. The beautiful old oak tree on the other side of the street, whose trunk was almost as wide as the house it was shading. The large, brown bird's nest high in its branches. Women hurried by with bundles in their arms. Children played ball, hopscotch and one girl jumped rope, right beneath our apartment windows. 

After I had a good look outside, I ran to the bedroom and bounced on the mattress and laughed and laughed. My happiness was so infectious, my parents joined me on the bed and we hugged and giggled and romped. 

Later that day, I filled the bathtub with warm water and took my first bath in what seemed to be a lifetime. How good it felt to be able to wash, to brush my teeth. The clean smell of soap, the way my face felt freshly scrubbed. Shampooing my hair was particularly gratifying since it was growing back and I would soon be able to braid it. I must have stayed in the tub for an hour, scrubbing and scrubbing trying to rid myself of the dirt, grime and vermin I felt I still possessed after all the time in the barn. 

In the evening I went to bed. The first time I could remember being in a real bed with a mattress and clean sheets and a soft pillow. I awoke the next day to the sound of birds singing and sunshine flooding the room. I got up and pulled up the shade, looked out and saw the trees swaying in the soft breeze. I filled my lungs with the sweet fresh air. I had thought I would wake and find it had been a dream, but it was real. I was warm and comfortable and safe, able to walk around from one room to the next, to sit at a table with the aroma of breakfast being prepared. 

In the days that followed, my father bought a used sewing machine and some material and made dresses for my mother and myself. We also painted the apartment and my mother made curtains for the windows. Mother wanted me to accompany her to the stores when she went shopping, but I was afraid of people and would not go outside. I was content staying in the apartment, which to me felt as spacious as a palace. I'd go into the bedroom and playact as I had done in the barn. I didn't want to deal with children who might reject me. But mama wanted me to get some fresh air and sunshine. As the apartment was on the ground floor, she sat me on the outside of the window ledge so that I would at least get some fresh air and get used to people walking by. It wasn't long before the children on the street surmised I was frightened and began tormenting me. When I sat on the window ledge, as I did everyday, they threw stones at me and made disparaging remarks, which made me fear them more. 

Eventually, mother made me go with her to the store to buy groceries and ribbons for my hair. But as I walked with her, I would hide my face in her dress. Exacerbating this problem was the fact that I was unable to speak in a regular voice, having had to whisper for so long, everyone had to bend down and really get close to hear me. I didn't enjoy the outing even though we bought ribbons in many colors for my hair. When we came home with our purchases, mother braided my hair and tied it with the ribbon, making beautiful large bows on both sides of my face. 

Father hung up a "tailoring" sign and told every one he came in contact with that he would make custom suits, coats, dresses or blouses for women as well as alterations. Hoping to attract enough business to pay back the money we borrowed from Mr. Tomaszkow. Eventually, a few customers came in and then through word of mouth more and more found us. It looked as if things would be good after all. In the meantime, with my parents help, I became more confident, and although I still spoke in whispers, I ventured out exploring the neighborhood while my mother helped my father with the sewing. 

On one of my excursions, I came upon a street where there was a Catholic school. One day, as I passed by, two nuns and some children came out of the building to play in the yard. I stood at the fence looking at the children playing hopscotch, and various other games. They seemed so happy and self-assured. They knew all the games and were so good at playing them. What's more, they were unafraid to speak up for themselves. I wished so much I could be like them. From then on I went to the schoolyard everyday. The nuns, noticing I was always hanging around when the children were at play, approached me and said I could come in and sit next to them in the schoolyard if I wanted to. They were very nice to me. When they asked my name, they said, "Why are you whispering?" My visceral instincts told me not to tell them, so I just shrugged and refused to say anything else about it. The nuns did not pressure me, but instead went on to describe the various goals of each game the kids were playing. Then the sisters described the school and the subjects taught. After that, each day I went to the schoolyard and sat with the nuns. The children scrutinized me with obvious curiosity, not knowing what I was doing there since I had not been attending classes. Once a ball that was not caught rolled to me. I looked at the teachers, who nodded. I picked up the ball and threw it to the girl who had dropped it. We shyly smiled at each other and the girl went back to her game. After about a week, the nuns, who by this time, I'm sure, had guessed I was Jewish, asked if I would like to come to their school and play with the other children. Of course, I was ecstatic to be given this opportunity of being treated like everyone else. When I said "yes," they asked me to deliver a note to my parents. In the note, the sisters told my parents they had seen me at the schoolyard watching the children at play and that I had told them I wanted to go to their school. They assured my parents I would be most welcome, all my parents had to do was sign the attached registration form and attach a note giving consent for me to be converted to Catholicism. 

I ran the entire way home thinking, boy this was my lucky day. I would have friends, be able to play games, maybe even go to the movies with them, I would be just like all the other kids. I zoomed into the apartment, hardly able to contain my excitement long enough to tell my parents what had happened. Finally I spurted it out, telling the whole story. 
"Here, just sign here and here," I said handing them the forms, "then I can start right away." 
I couldn't understand why my parents hesitated, why they weren't as enthusiastic as I. After reading the note I had given them, they refused to sign it, trying to explain why they could not give their permission. I cried, I yelled, I threw a tantrum, all to no avail. 
"Don't you remember what we just went through?" they asked. 
"Well, that's why," I countered. "Nobody likes Jews, no one wants to play with them. If I convert, nobody will be able to do that to us again." 
"Do you think we could have avoided the past two and a half years by 
becoming Catholics?" they asked. 
I looked at them, trying to think if we could have been spared. Seeing my confusion, my parents continued. 
"No. The Nazis knew we were born Jewish and changing would not have mattered and it won't matter now either," they said. My parents would not sign the agreement. I screamed, "I don't want to be a Jew. I want to have blond hair and blue eyes. I want to be like everyone else. I don't want to be hated." I ran into the bedroom and threw myself on the bed, sobbing. Later, mother told me, as gently and as sympathetically as she could, that we had not gone through this hell just to have me converted to Catholicism. The subject was closed. I didn't go back to the schoolyard for a few days trying to delay the rejection I knew would come. When I finally summoned enough courage to return, before I could sit down, the nuns asked me if my parents had signed the agreement. I told them they had not. The nuns asked me to leave then and told me not to come back. 

I was heart-broken. What harm would it have done if I came to watch the children? So what if I failed to persuade my parents to sign the stupid form? So what if I couldn't attend their school? My parents were old fashioned; they clung to their old ways. I could still have come to the school. My parents didn't have to know. If only the nuns would let me. But they didn't let me and didn't want me. They pursed their lips disapprovingly until they took on the shape of a thin black line. I was not welcomed, not allowed to be in the company of these privileged children. Fighting tears, I turned, walked slowly away, feeling everyone's eyes on my back. 

Life settled into a normal routine over the next several months. Mom helped Dad with the sewing. Dad's clientele was really expanding and I was starting to get a little more comfortable with the world around me. Although my voice was still very soft and I wasn't going to school, I was not as fearful when I went shopping with mother. 

Then it happened. I remember something waking me in the middle of the night. Someone was knocking frantically on our door. I heard whispers. 
"Hurry, hurry -- you must leave," he said 
"Why, what's happened? What's the matter?" father asked. 
"They're going to kill you -- tonight -- hurry, hurry -- you must go. Take what you must, leave everything else, I'll take you to the train station -- only hurry or we'll all be dead." 

I crawled out of bed and cracked open my door to peek. I saw what seemed to be a woman dressed in a long black cape and hood. I felt the little hairs on the back of my neck rise and my heart pounded like a timpani. I could tell we were in great danger again. 

Suddenly I heard running. Drawers slamming. Mother rushed into the bedroom telling me to dress very quickly. We ran out of the apartment and into a truck. I recognized the man behind the wheel as the same man whose farm we lived in hiding for two and a half years. I guessed he was the one who knocked at our door earlier and not a woman as I had thought. He drove us to the train station. Father shook his hand with both of his hands. Their eyes misted as they looked at each other, no words needed to be spoken. Mother hugged and kissed him, tears streaming down her cheeks. She took the man's hands in her own and kissed them. 
"Thank you," she said "God bless you and your family -- this is the second time we owe our lives to you." 
"Just take care of yourselves, don't trust anyone, be careful," he said, emotion cracking his voice. 
Father bought train tickets. We waited at a safe distance from the platform, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves, until the train came. We boarded the train and as it started to move we felt safer. We rode in silence for a while, my mother holding me close to her. 
"Tickets please," the conductor called out. We gave him the tickets and thankfully he seemed satisfied and didn't ask for our papers. 
My father said as he gently stroked my cheek, "Don't worry Hania, everything will be all right, nothing will happen to us." I think he was trying to convince himself as well as me. 
"Where are we going?" I asked. 
"I bought tickets to Sosnowiecz," my father answered. 
"Why Sosnowiecz?" asked my mother. 
"It's a bigger town, we'll be able to get a train that will take us close to the German border," he answered. 
"The German border, why? What are you thinking, David?" my mother asked. 
"I'm thinking we'll never be safe in Poland." 
"David," mother said so quietly I could hardly hear her. Tears started down her cheeks again and she bowed her head. 
"Listen, Hela, who do we have left in Poland anyway? Everyone we knew has been killed," my father reminded my mother. 
"But Germany. Do you think Germany will be better? The hatred is even worse there," she said. "And to start all over again, I don't know David, Poland is our home." 
"Do you think we can ever again call Poland 'home'? There must be someone who helps people like us. Some organization for people without homes. Maybe I can find out about those organizations. Maybe they can help us get out of Poland. Maybe they can help us get to America." 
"America?" mother said, her eyes opening wide. "David, who do you know that can do that?" 
"I don't know anyone, but there must be someone who can help us. I don't know, we'll find out when we get to Sosnowiecz, we'll make inquiries," my father said. 

The rest of the journey we traveled in silence, each one of us preoccupied with our own thoughts. I looked out the window at the landscape, the lush rolling valley of farmland. I saw a man plowing in a meadow and a dog came running out on the roadside, barking at the train as it went by. It all looked so peaceful but nothing really was the way it seemed. Just like in Skalbmierz where we had our apartment. That town looked peaceful too. Still we had to run away because we were in danger. Nobody wanted us. We were Jews. The world hated us. Why I wondered? What had we done to be so disliked? What had we done to be treated this way? I wondered if we would ever be all right again or if we'd always have to pack up in the middle of the night and run. America. Would we be safe there? Was it possible? An inner voice in me said, 'it's possible, why not?' Maybe there they don't care if you're Jewish. Maybe in America they won't even ask. Anything is possible. God has taken care of us so far. In my mind's eye I pictured God as an enormous old man with a long white beard sitting in heaven, watching every move we made, hearing our every word and knowing our every thought. When it thundered I knew God was angry with someone, when it rained I pictured God squeezing the clouds of all the water inside them because they were too puffy. 

When we arrived in Sosnowiecz, we found a place to stay while father went to get the information he sought. When he came back he told my mother, 
"Mr. Tomaszkow was right, there was danger. There was a pogrom in Skalbmierz." 
"Why, what happened all of a sudden?" mother asked. 
"There were rumors of ritual murders of Polish children," he said 
"A 13 year old boy was very late coming home and afraid of being punished so he told his family that Polish children were being killed and he was hiding, that's why he was late." 
"So naturally, they were eager to believe it," she said. "And blame the Jews for the murders." 
"They killed more than 40 Jewish families," he said. "40 families. They survived the war. Suffered who knows what. Only to be murdered now." 
Mother looked at him, shaking her head in disbelief. 
"David, can you imagine if Mr. Tomaszkow hadn't warned us? How could we have been so na?ve, to think the anti-Semitism ended with the war? It's as fierce now as it ever was." 
"I spoke with some people. There is an organization called the HIAS (Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society). It has a local office here. They gave me the address. We'll go tomorrow morning and see what it's about." 

The next day we registered with the HIAS. 
"What happens now?" father asked the official. 
"Someone will come to interview you. To see if you qualify." 
"What do you mean if we qualify? What do we have to do to qualify?" 
"We just want to make certain that the right people are taken care of. Don't worry about it. It's just routine." 
"And if we qualify, what happens then?" mother interjected. 
"We'll take care of the visas and all documents for the three of you," he said. "We will let you know when everything is ready. Then you'll go by train to Landsberg." 
"What's in Landsberg? What will happen there?" my father asked. 
"It's a Displaced Persons camp. You'll be given health checks, some clothing, a little money and a place to stay. Don't worry, it will be alright," the official said. 
"Thank you very much. We'll wait to hear from you." 
"We'll be in touch. Good luck." 

Then one day there was a knock on the door. It was a woman from the HIAS. She interviewed my parents for about an hour asking them all kinds of questions. She was making sure we were not Nazi collaborators trying to pass ourselves off as victims. That's why she came unexpectedly. We had to wait about a week before we received a letter telling us we would be taken to Landsberg, Germany. They told us to come to the office for our visas. We were also given money for train tickets and food for the trip. We were told what train to take and where to get off, where to go once we got there. 

We traveled in a compartment with other people we assumed were sponsored by the HIAS. I looked out of the window as the train sped by, and saw villages with beautiful little homes that looked as if they came straight out of a storybook. There were forests and some bucolic towns with thatched roofs. Sometimes I would see children riding bicycles and small groups of children running around playing some kind of game. They stopped when they saw the train approaching and waved. One day, torrential rain swept the countryside. I studied the raindrops as they hit the windowpane and thought what a magical world this was. The rain was washing the dust off the leaves on the trees. Soon the sun would shine again and the earth would smell fresh and sweet. Flowers would bloom, butterflies would flutter and bees would go from flower to flower. It was fascinating. Only a child who could not remember seeing the changing seasons could have enjoyed the rain as I did that day. 






Chapter Eleven 

We, the liberated Jews, who had come out of the concentration camps and hiding places found a world that had no place for us. Neither free nor enslaved, living on the land of our oppressors, plagued by illness and exhaustion, bereft of homes and family, we were beaten both physically and spiritually. Many suffered intense attacks of depression, wondering if it made sense to go on with life when there was no one to live for and no home to return to. Although we three had each other, still brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, were all gone. A life that had once been rich with family and tradition had been crushed. 

The Allies established Displaced Persons camps to help the uprooted Jews find homes. Many Jews, like us, did not want to be repatriated to the countries of our birth because of the fierce anti-Semitism that still prevailed. 

Unlike most DP camps, which were bleak places established on the grounds of former concentration camps, Landsberg, located just north of Munich, had been a military compound for the German army at the zenith of their power. The solidly built buildings were made available to the liberated Jews. The first to come to the DP camps were so demoralized, the Allies thought they were beyond any hope of rehabilitation. But within months, the resilience of these people revitalized and created one of the most flourishing communities in the camps. They started newspapers, published books, established athletic clubs and sporting events. Teachers from Palestine and the United States came to teach in the schools, which had been organized, not only for the children but also for adults who wanted to learn a trade in order to be productive in their adoptive countries. Religious holidays became major events for celebrations. Theater and musical troupes toured the camps putting on traditional Yiddish plays as well as plays dealing with the Holocaust. 
An enormous amount of weddings took place, and soon the camp boasted the largest birth rate in the world. Life had become so rich that it prompted one of the leaders, Samuel Gringaus, to state, "Let us be the ones to show the world that the bright light of the Jews will never be extinguished." 

By the time we arrived in Landsberg, in 1946, the DP camp was already the second largest in the American zone. 
The first task confronting the Allies was to help survivors locate relatives. Organizations like the Red Cross and United Nations Relief & Rehabilitation Administration (UNRRA) formed central tracing bureaus. Public radio stations and newspapers published lists of survivors and their whereabouts. 

Our first day in Landsberg was spent shuffling through a bureaucratic process of filling out cards and forms, getting health checks, food and a place to live. They gave us laundry soap and face soap, deodorant and toothpaste. Even baby powder was supplied and something I had never seen before, a washcloth. 

We were given a small room on Kaierne Str., Block 36/zi.67 our number had been dp.06g3ia. The room contained two beds, a table and chairs and equipped with a tiny kitchen. 

Once we were settled, my parents went about finding out about their family. They discovered that father's bother, Chil and mother's brother, Avruhm, had survived the war and were on their way to Landsberg. Henek had also been on the list, but his whereabouts were unknown. Vita, Nusha and Roman Gdanski were not on the list and we feared the worst. We were the lucky ones, even though the rest of our family had perished, at least five of us had survived. 
Each family had to make a choice of destinations for emigration. The choices were Argentina, Canada, Australia or America. We chose America. Then they mentioned states and cities, some of which we never heard of. We chose New York because it was a very famous city my parents knew about. 

I began having fantasies of what it would be like living in America. My father told me stories of the streets paved with gold and cowboys roamed the neighborhoods. America, a country so rich it could put gold on the streets? And did cowboys really wear big white hats, boots with spurs and six shooters on their hips, just like in the movies? I hoped that people in America would like me and that I would have many friends. 

For me, Landsberg was a happy place. Here is where I tasted ice cream for the very first time, sold by a vendor with a small ice cream truck. He had thin square vanilla wafers and he cut a square piece of vanilla ice cream that fit exactly on the wafer. It was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten in my life. This was also the place where an American soldier said, 
"Hiya cutie, how ya doin?" 
I didn't understand a word he said, but when he smiled at me, I knew he was a kind person. I think he realized I couldn't understand him. 
"Here, want some bubble gum?" he asked, as he stretched his arm out, offering me the gum. He then blew a bubble and smiled. I laughed at his accomplishment and walked over to see how he did it. He laughed at my surprised look and made more bubbles. As I watched, he exaggerated the movements so I could see how it was done. 
"Hey, cutie, wanna ride on my motorcycle?" he asked as he patted the seat behind him so I would understand what he was saying. I shook my head "yes" but hesitated getting on. He patted the seat behind him again and put out his hand to help me get on. When I was seated, he took my arms and put them around his waist and indicated I should hold on tight. Then he started the motor and we began moving. It was so exciting. The wind blowing my hair off my face felt wonderful. We were going so fast. It was scary and exciting all at once like a ride in an amusement park. Going around the corners was the scariest. I thought we would fall off when he tilted the motorcycle to make the turns. We rode around for about 20 minutes. What fun life could be. When he took me back to my street, my cheeks were red from the wind and I think I had a serious crush on this wonderful American soldier. 

Mother, of course, didn't know where I had disappeared. Survivors were very protective of their children and didn't like them wandering off. She was standing outside looking for me, a worried expression on her face, just as we rode up to the street. When she saw me with the soldier and the smile on our faces, she visibly relaxed and smiled too. She nodded to the soldier 'thank you' then he left, but not before he gave me some bubble gum. 
"See ya 'round, cutie. Here, practice blowing bubbles with this," he said. My mother and I waved good-bye as he disappeared around the corner. 
"Mom, I think we will love living in America," I declared. 

The school I attended in Landsberg was created to accommodate children like me. Some survived concentration camps, some were orphaned and some survived in bunkers. There must have been thirty to a classroom from Russia, Romania, Poland and other parts of Germany. All the children went to school until after lunch. We had desks, notepads, pens and ink, even crayons. We drew, read and listened to stories. The teachers tried to address our terrible memories and nightmares. They attempted to instill in us some confidence and self-worth and restore life to the hollowed, vacuous eyes. And we, the children, responded to the gentleness and attention shown us, giving credence to the enormous resilience of the human spirit. 

After lunch we had classes in ballet or gymnastics. I took ballet. We worked hard doing exercise to strengthen our legs, and we learned the five feet and arm positions. We learned how to pirouette without getting dizzy. I loved it. It made me feel graceful, beautiful and accomplished especially when I completed a routine that pleased the teacher. After all, I had pretended to be a great ballerina in the lean-to. Maybe someday my dream would come true. 

We had Purim and Hanukah parties. We went to plays and were encouraged to participate in all kinds of sports. They even had a Jewish center for all sorts of activities. In the fall, we were taken for walks in the woods, when the leaves on the trees changed colors to orange, red and gold. Many parents were overly protective and very uncomfortable having their children leave on excursions. Happily, my parents didn't have those hang-ups. But when the children returned happy and safe, full of the wonders they had seen, many parents relaxed their vigilance. However, some parents never got over their trepidation, and their attitudes affected their children. 

Theatre troupes put on plays most Saturday evenings at the camp. One Saturday night, I went with my parents to see a play called the "Der Dibuk" (The Spirit). It was about a spirit without a body, who inhabited a living person, possessed it and spoke through it. The play petrified me. Seeing how the spirit took over the person where the person had no will of their own. I never forgot that play. Even in adulthood, I remember it and how I had been affected by it. 

The school was one of the vehicles for supplying bread to the families. At the end of each school day, every child was given a half loaf of bread to take home for the family. The bread was so good, baked fresh everyday, the outside nice and crusty, the inside soft. As I walked home from school, I started eating the inside of the bread. By the time I reached the apartment, there was nothing left but a shell. Feeling guilty for having eaten the loaf, I placed it on the table hollow side down. Who was I kidding? I knew they would see it was hollow as soon as they picked it up, and who else could have eaten it? By stalling the inevitable teasing, I hoped I'd be playing outside when the discovery was made. I did this day after day and soon it became a family joke. 
"Mmm, Hania, the crust of the bread was so delicious." But I needn't have felt guilty. There were no food rations here, no food lines to stand on for hours. If you needed more food, all you had to do was ask. 

Because of their temporary status, the adults in Landsberg could not get jobs in town. Everyone was waiting to emigrate and they didn't know whether they would be at the DP camp for a few months or a couple of years. So they volunteered their time in various camp activities. Father, Avruhm and Chil sewed for the people of the camp and they coached the thriving soccer teams. 

Father applied and received a driver's license and we made excursions into Munich when we were able to borrow a car. The big city didn't frighten me anymore and I actually enjoyed looking into all the store windows, especially the bakeries with their luscious pastries. And father was only too happy to buy some for me. 

Because of the years in the bunker, I had developed rheumatism. It effected my knees every time it rained or the air was very humid. I was given aspirin and other painkillers to no avail. The crippling pain prevented me sometimes from attending ballet class. The doctors advised my parents to seek medical help when we got to America. They were certain American doctors would be able to help me. Unfortunately, they couldn't. When the first American doctor examined me, he had difficulty just taking x-rays because my legs shook to the extent the x-rays came out blurry. They even put sandbags on my legs to keep them still and that didn't work either. The tremor was further evidence of muscular deterioration. The pain stayed with me most of my life in various degrees of severity. Only in the last ten years has the pain subsided enough that I can no longer forecast the weather. 

One time I had a cold and fever and had to stay in bed. But after a week, my symptoms grew worse. Fearing that I might be developing pneumonia, which was so common at the camp, they took me to the infirmary where they applied medicinal lamps on my back. I had never seen anything like that. I watched them take a long match, light it and heat the inside of the lamp and quickly put it on my back. It conjured up images of witchcraft. I prayed they knew what they were doing and I wouldn't catch on fire. In the meantime, my back looked as if I had rounds of sausage on it. 

We, except for my uncle Avruhm, who had to stay behind to recuperate, left Landsberg November 1946, heading toward Breman where we would board a ship to America. 







Chapter Twelve 

Friday, January 24, 1947, had been gray and cold and everyone sensed we were nearing our destination. Breakfast and lunch, usually noisy affairs, were uncharacteristically subdued. I was only nine years old, but I remember feeling the mood of the passengers' seemed to have changed soon after the mid-day meal. Not a single word had been uttered, as if an unspoken and unseen signal was given and more than 600 people, all at once, started putting on their life vests and silently, made their way up the steep steps to the deck. The wind whipping off the Atlantic threw mists of ice cold saltwater into our faces, as we squinted, straining to see the land that would be our home for the rest of our lives. We crowded around the rail of the military ship, the Marine Marlin, my mother, father, my uncle Chil and I together with all the other passengers. Grim, expectant faces, all silent, all eager, all praying we had not miscalculated putting all our hopes and dreams into this land. For we were no ordinary ?migr?s, we were refugees. If we made a mistake, we could not go back home. We had no home to go back to. 

We had traveled from the Displaced Person Camp in Landsberg, Germany to Bramen, a journey of more than 450 kilometers. Because there was a coal strike in America, we couldn't leave right away. We went to Bramenhaven and waited there for about three months until the coal strike was over. We boarded the ship on January 8, 1947. We had been crossing the Atlantic Ocean for sixteen days. The ocean was violent in the middle of winter. At times the waves seemed like tsunamis, engulfing the ship in a wall of water, chairs and tables sliding from one side of the deck to the other as if they were made of balsa wood. 

On rare sunny days, passengers who were well enough, sat on hard wooden chairs on the deck, wrapped in their threadbare winter coats and scarves facing the sun and breathed in the fresh salty air. 

The rocking of the ship didn't bother me. I was busy investigating every inch of the vessel while my parents, and most of the other passengers, groaned as they lay on their triple bunk beds unable to hold down food or drink. 

Wanting to help my parents feel better, I had gone down to the kitchen and fetched tea, sugar, lemon and crackers. As I walked up the steps to the berth, a man walking besides me looked out of the porthole and saw a wave that looked like a volcanic eruption speed toward the ship. He shouted, "look". I turned just in time to see water bury the ship. That's when I screamed and dropped the tray I was holding. From that day on I joined the other moaners on top of my own triple bunk. For the rest of the trip I lay with my eyes closed, facing the wall, afraid my stomach would rebel if I moved. I remember the orderly, a tall, muscular man, his face the color of smooth mahogany, pausing at my bunk every afternoon, resting his hands on the mop handle, he asked how I felt. I risked turning my head and looked into the gentlest dark brown eyes I had ever seen and smiled. He'd shake his head "OK" and continued mopping. One afternoon when he paused at my bunk, I turned and saw he was peeling an orange. When he had finished he offered it to me. 
"This will make you feel better." He said. 
He helped me sit up and waited until I took a bite. The orange was so sweet and juicy, I closed my eyes as I savored the delicious liquid trickling down my throat. When I opened my eyes, he was watching me with a big smile on his face. I smiled too, 
"Bardzo dziekuje." (thank you very much) I said, grateful for his kindness. 

At twilight we had our first glimpse of land. In the distance we saw lights in tall buildings and shining from cars as they sped by on the FDR drive. But the most beautiful sight of all was the Statue of Liberty with her torch held high welcoming us, the background lights twinkling like distant stars. 

Representatives from HIAS were waiting for us as we debarked. They put our cardboard valise tied with string into a van and drove us to a hotel where we would stay until we found our own apartment and my father found a job. 

Gazing out the window at the passing landscape, I wondered where were the streets paved with gold? Where were the cowboys on horses with the guns at their hips? These were the tales I had heard when people spoke about America. I stole a glance at my mother and father and knew intuitively this was not what they had expected America to be like. 

My father had, by the age of 20, traveled to many European cities and had enjoyed the cosmopolitan life he had experienced there. Where were the wide boulevards of Vienna or Brussels? Where was the charm of Paris? Where was the night life of Berlin? Was this the famous New York City with trash cans standing in a row on the sidewalks? 

We were torn out of our reverie when the van stopped in front of a large, square, red-brick building near the corner of 103rd Street and Amsterdam Avenue. The hotel was named the Marseille. It was one of several hotels the HIAS used to temporarily house Jewish refugees entering the United States. 

The Marseille was a whisper better than some of the other buildings we had seen. A myriad of refugees swarmed the large lobby standing in groups trading information about jobs and apartments. Beyond the lobby we saw a large room with tables and chairs, obviously a restaurant. We were whisked up to our room, a small space containing a double bed with a dark headboard, a wardrobe and a fold-up cot. Against the wall, opposite the bed stood a small table and two chairs and a tiny sink. It was a shabby, cheap looking room. The only thing nice about it was that the windows faced the street. My uncle Chil's room was gloomier because it faced an alleyway. Silently, we washed the grime off our hands and faces while mama took out fresh clothes from our valise to dress for Friday night dinner. 

Our spirit lifted when we went downstairs to the restaurant we had briefly seen earlier from the lobby. The large room, gleaming from light of two chandeliers hanging from a high ceiling. A tall candelabra had been lit and placed on a sideboard against the wall heralding in the Sabbath. White tablecloths covered round tables large enough to seat eight. Matching napkins arranged next to each place setting of sparkling dinnerware, glasses and silverware with a large challah (the Sabbath bread) ceremoniously positioned in the center of each table. To me it was the most exquisite room in the world. 

We were shown to our places and introduced to a couple, Sima and Froim Zinn, who had arrived from Warsaw, Poland only two weeks earlier. Mr. Zinn complained at the difficulty he was having finding a job. He had been a Hebrew teacher in Warsaw and had no skills that he could apply to what was needed in New York. He also said that affordable housing was difficult to come by, although he knew someone who had just gotten a small apartment on Avenue C near Essex Street. 

Papa told Mr. Zinn he was a tailor and asked if he knew where he should look to find a job. Sima and Froim Zinn both said the Garment district was the place to look but it was full of "sweatshops" meaning the working conditions were terrible. 

After dinner, we went for a stroll along Amsterdam Avenue and Broadway. It was invigorating to see so many people rushing about. Some were going to the movies or restaurants, others taking in the sights as we were. We could recognize many people who were like ourselves, refugees, from their body language and from the hushed conversations in Yiddish or Polish. My concern was the people who spoke English. How would I communicate when the time came for me to go to school? Would anyone like me or want to be my friend if I couldn't speak the language? 

All that was forgotten for the moment when we passed a toy store and looking out at me was a beautiful doll with black hair and a blue and white dress. Although my father had only six dollars in his pocket, he couldn't refuse my pleas, and for $2.85 the doll was in my arms. Another $1.25 was spent on oranges from the green grocer on the corner near our hotel. 

First thing Monday morning, with directions from a HIAS worker, even though he spoke no English, father went to the garment district to look for work. With gestures he indicated his need for a job. When the boss asked him about his experience, having no language, father sat down by the nearest sewing machine, picked up one of the garments they were working on and demonstrated his talent. Indeed, it seemed he was right, we would be 'okay in America'. Father was hired on the spot. The job paid $110 a week, and in 1947 that was real money. 

The following week brought the infamous snowstorm of 1947 everyone talks about. I saw street vendors selling potatoes and chestnuts. Some men made fires in old oil drums to keep their hands warm. My parents laughed at the way people carried on because of the snow. They joked that by Polish standards the weather was mild and this kind of snow was considered merely an annoyance. 

Through the same agency that sponsored us, my uncle, Avruhm, arrived in April. I jumped up on him with my legs wrapped around his waist, patting him on the back and said, "Don't worry, Uncle Abe, you'll be OK in America." After all, I had to assure him since I was now the American and he the "greenhorn." Later that month we found an apartment on the Lower East Side, 319 Stanton Street, two blocks away from the East River Drive (FDR Drive as it's known today). Five steps up took us to the entry hall of the six family house, two steps down led to a candy store. My first official act, when we settled into our apartment, was to open an account with the owners of the candy store. 

The apartment consisted of three rooms, a large kitchen as you entered, to the left was a bedroom, to the right was the living room. This is where I slept, on a sofa which opened as a bed. When I went to bed, I folded my clothes and put them on a chair. I often had nightmares and when they woke me, the light from the moon shone on the chair with my clothes on it and I imagined all kinds of demons sitting there. I tried to calm down, to tell myself it's not real but ultimately I ran into my parent's room and stayed there the rest of the night. It took quite a while for the nightmares to cease, but not as long as the horrendous times that had caused them. 

We were fortunate that our bathroom was in our apartment, unlike people who lived in other tenements in the area, who had to share bathrooms located in the hallway with everyone who lived on that floor. However, we had no shower. A bathtub in the kitchen with a large porcelain cover on it was our only means of bathing. Anytime someone wanted to bathe, everyone else had to leave the apartment. 

I registered for school at PS 188, two blocks from where we lived. Since I didn't know how to speak English, I was put into the third grade instead of the fourth where I belonged. It was very difficult trying to keep up with the lessons not understanding the language being spoken. There were no other immigrant children in the school at that time and no special efforts had been made on my behalf. Either I kept up with the studies or I didn't. By being immersed in the language, I picked it up fairly quickly but struggled to keep up with the other subjects being taught. The teacher advised me to get a library card for required school assignments. The day I went to the library to get my card, the librarian told me about the story hour every Saturday morning. Seeing I was hesitant, she encouraged me to come just one time. I felt embarrassed to argue with her, so I promised I'd be there. Having promised, I felt obligated to go. So at 8:30 Saturday morning I dressed and reluctantly went to the library. I was surprised to see so many children already there. Feeling ill at ease, I sat in the back row. A young librarian came out, introduced herself and began reading from a book. She evoked such emotion as she read, I felt entranced. Since that day, I never missed a session. It was one of my favorite times and more importantly, it instilled in me the love of books. 

Living on the East Side with a lot of immigrants and survivors presented another problem for us. The only language I knew fluently was Polish. It was what we spoke at home and conversed in when we walked in the street. Because Poland was so horrific to the Jews, this was an insult to the survivors who heard us. They threw stones and yelled at us. 
"How can you speak the language of our tormentors?" they screamed. 
Stunned at the vehement outcry we decided we would speak Yiddish from then on. My parents spoke both languages well, but I now had to learn English as well as Yiddish. 

The kids were very nice to me in school even though I saw the curiosity in their eyes. The most difficult part was making friends outside of school. I felt out-of-place, different and shy. Everyone seemed to be happy, laughing and talking all the time in contrast to my serious nature. I was a child who had been threatened by physical danger, even death and suddenly found myself in an environment that trumpeted, "okay, forget everything that had happened to you and think only of movies, hamburgers and the ABCs. Be happy. 

My parents, thankfully, were not as overly protective of me as some survivors were of their children. At least mother wasn't. Nevertheless, I was bestowed with attention and importance I might not have received had we had the extended family we once had in Poland. It was up to me to explain any correspondence we received like the phone bill from AT&T or the electric bill from Con Ed. I'd have to get bus and subway directions and relay them precisely when we had to go somewhere. If we had to contact government agencies, I'd be expected to contact the right agency, translate from English to Yiddish and back again, find out what documents were needed and somehow help obtain them. When father needed to find out anything, I'd have to get the answers. "I can't find it." Was never an excuse I could give. Likewise, anything less than an "A" or "100 percent" in schoolwork was considered a failure which had to be explained, defended and never, ever repeated. 

The one time I failed has tormented me throughout my life. I was 12 years old at the time. My father worked in the garment district for a company who sold their clothes to Bergdorff Goodman, Saks Fifth Avenue and other high-end stores. My father's work was so good, he worked on the sample clothes that were shown to the buyers of these stores and from which they would make their selections. The clothes had to be perfect. He got paid by the "piece," meaning a certain amount of money for each garment he sewed. I remember father coming home and once a week, after dinner, we made room at the kitchen table, sat together and I helped him count the little slips of paper with style numbers on them. We stacked them according to style, counted them and father entered the numbers in a little notebook he kept. He was then able to figure out what his earnings added up to for that week. 

One day, after we went through this ritual, he asked me to look in the newspapers for jobs for him where he could design women's clothes and make patterns for his designs. I looked in The New York Times, the only newspaper I knew that had the most job listings. But they were not the kind of work father was looking for. Many years later I realized there was a trade paper called The Woman's Wear Daily where they had the kind of listings appropriate for his skills. Every time I saw him come home tired and sweaty from his job, I blamed myself for his inability to move into the kind of work he had always wanted and which would have been not only easier but much more satisfying. It was as if I had sentenced him to the garment district forever. I had failed him. 

Eventually, I made friends with a girl named Alice and a boy named Abraham. Both were American and lived around the corner from me at the Baruch Housing Development. They did a great deal to help me over the hurdles. Especially Abraham, who was a bright kid and helped me with homework and doing research at the library for school papers. While I eventually became comfortable around them, whenever they invited someone else to be with us, I would clam up. 

Before long my parents made friends with two sisters, Goldie and Harry Fein, and Leah and Joe Hornreich, who took us under their wings and "Americanized" us. Then they were introduced to a couple, Lilly and Joe Abrams and their daughter Meryl. Lilly was a very beautiful woman who taught my mother about make-up and hairstyles. All of them lived on Havenmeyer Street in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. I remember Saturday nights walking across the Williamsburg bridge then taking a bus to their homes. Holocaust survivors did not leave children at home alone. When they visited with friends it was akin to visiting relatives rather than an evening out with adults. Children accompanied their parents everywhere. I also remember going to The Radio City Music Hall or the Roxy Theatre. My father loved musicals and Betty Grable had been his favorite actress. Next, his favorites had been comedies especially those starring Charlie Chaplin or Buster Keaton. I remember his uproarious, infectious laugh. I don't know whether I laughed at the scene in the movie or at my father laughing at the scene he was looking at. 

It would be a mistake to think survivors were depressed and maudlin. When we visited with Goldie, Leah and Lily, my parents recalled their life in Poland hysterically laughing at the things they had to do to surmount their deprivations. Our American friends countered with their own impoverished experiences during the depression and the things they had to do to survive. I loved listening to the stories and upmanship amid gales of laughter. This is not to say my parents didn't miss the life they have had in Poland. Poor as it had been, there was a richness in tradition, cohesiveness of family life. Sure they hated Poland and the anti-Semitism which surrounded them, but not the street where they lived, the market place where they shopped, the religious studies, the many shuls (synagogues) in the neighborhood, the collective activities before High Holy days and preparation for Passover, the smell of pine trees in the woods, even the air they breathed seemed special. Above all they longed for the family they had lost. These were the memories which weighed heavily on their hearts and brought sighs to their lips and which ultimately they chose to put away in their subconscious and look forward to the daily life they had to face now. 

I enrolled in a neighborhood ballet school hoping to pick up where I had left off in Landsberg. But this school had a much different approach to teaching. I was far ahead of the students in some phases and behind them in others. My parents couldn't afford to send me to a better school, so in the end it became too frustrating and I stopped attending. My dreams of becoming a ballerina ended. 

However, the very best part came a year or two after we had arrived. I joined the Henry Street Settlement with a few of my friends. One day, they were planning to present a play and two of my friends and I were chosen to play the leading roles. I was so excited that when the day finally came, I stood on stage and was frozen by the sight of all those people looking up at us and listening. My co-actors filled in my lines at first, but it was a disaster waiting to happen. Luckily, as I heard my lines being spoken by someone else, I snapped out of my stupor and said my lines the way we had rehearsed. My whispering days were gone. This time everyone heard me, even the people in the back row. 






Epilogue 

For a thousand years Jews had been part of the Polish landscape. They were among the first to record the founding of the Polish State. Jewish coiners minted money with Hebrew inscription for Polish kings in the 11th and 12th centuries. Their presence grew with each century, but, throughout history there had been a love/hate relationship between the Jews and the Poles. Nevertheless, Jews were part of Polish life and they left their mark on that life. Now the Jewish chapter in Poland is closed. The community was obliterated and will never return. 

I have often wondered if Hitler's choice of Poland as the place for executing several million Jews had been a coincidence or if his knowledge of the Polish psyche that had made him choose so shrewdly? 

Horrors committed against my people, such as being cut open, without anesthesia, so the Nazis doctors could learn about the healing process has been well documented. Atrocities like these, of course, has effected the way I look at the world. But I also believe the Tomaszkows' not only saved our lives but also saved our souls. Mercifully, we were not in the ghetto and concentration camps where we would have seen death all around. While we were virtually prisoners for almost three years and we did not come out of this tragic event in history unscathed, we were given a safe haven and we did not have to wonder where we would spend the next day and night. We came out believing that in the midst of unspeakable cruelty, cruelty so abominable words could never properly convey the true horror, there were good and decent people. If not for the Tomaszkow's goodness we may have faired a lot worse, physically and mentally. 

My mother, father, and I eventually made it to America but the problems in Poland were not over. The Communists ruled and this good, kind family did not have an easy life under the Communist regime. When we were settled in America, and my father got his first job, we wrote to the Tomaszkows' and sent them $50 which was not easy to come by in 1947. We still didn't know how to speak English, I had just started school, and we certainly were not rich, but this family had saved our lives and we would always be grateful to them. They wrote back expressing their hope that someday their eldest daughter would be able to make her way to America. My parents promised, as soon as we became citizens of the United States, they would take steps to have her come to be with us. In the meantime, we kept sending $50 every month. 

One day we received a letter from the family saying they received our letter but the money we said we enclosed was not there. We couldn't understand what happened. Father had sent a check. The next time he sent $50, the same thing happened. We now strongly suspected someone was opening the mail and taking the money. Checking with our bank, we learned the checks had been cashed, but the Tomaszkows' bank did not carry out the transactions. Then, Mr. Tomaszkow wrote saying that the letter he received from us had certain key words blacked out. All references to our efforts of getting his daughter to the United States were removed. The Polish government must have taken the money previously and now they were censoring the mail. Soon, we received a letter asking why we hadn't written in so long. It seemed certain they were also confiscating their mail. I think father tried calling them once to tell them we had written frequently and to warn them their mail from America was not being delivered. But I really don't know whether or not he got through and was actually able to speak with them. 

Not long after these events we lost contact with them, but as I write this book, I look at a photograph my mother had preserved of the Tomaszkow family and the kindness of these people shows in their faces. 

During the chaos that existed in Poland right after the war, there was no mail service, the few telephone lines that worked were restricted for the military. Buses and trains, if they operated at all, ran infrequently. 

Mother's brother Henek, survived the war, but he, like Avruhm, had developed black lung disease from working in the coal mines in Russia. However, Henek's illness had been a lot worse and he had to be hospitalized in Lvov before returning to Poland. Anxious to go back to Krak?w to look for family survivors, especially his wife Vita and his daughter Nusha, he left the hospital too early against doctors' advise. 

Like so many others in his position, Henek had hitchhiked or hung onto dilapidated railway coaches without windows or doors, or got rides on hay carts, huddled together with others in the same situation. But mostly he walked. Finally, in autumn of 1945, exhausted and very ill he had made his way back to Krak?w. 

From acquaintances he had learned Vita had survived the concentration camp and that his sister Hela and her family had also survived and lived in Skalbmierz. Henek desperately wanted to see Vita, but he was in no condition to go looking for her. He asked people he met to try and locate Vita and tell her that her husband, Henek, was alive. 

In the beginning of the war Vita had stayed with Roman Gdanski's gentile friends. But early in 1943, the Germans stepped up their efforts to weed out the Jews. She was discovered hiding in their apartment and was promptly sent to a concentration camp. I believe it was a munitions camp called Plaszow. Miraculously, she survived, but the courageous Christian family who had hidden her from the Germans, were shot. 

When Vita learned her husband, Henek, had survived and was living in Krak?w she was elated, even though she also learned he was sick and very weak. Vita was sure she could nurse Henek back to health and they both would be reunited with their daughter, Nusha. 

It took days for her to make her way to Krak?w, just north from where she was, sleeping in railroad stations, waiting for the next train, or getting a lift on a horse-drawn cart, or walking and falling asleep on the highway. When at last she knocked at the front door, Henek seemed momentarily back to his normal self. His skin appeared rosier and his eyes gleamed with life, but the joyous reunion was short lived. As if seeing Vita, holding her and kissing her one more time gave him permission to end the struggle to live, Henek never recovered. He died in his sleep two days later. I believe he was able, through sheer will, to hold on to his life until he saw his wife again. Vita got in touch with the widow who had taken care of their daughter during the war, and brokenheartedly went alone to the train station at the appointed time to be reunited with Nusha. 

Nusha, a four-year-old child living with a Polish widow, had as good a life as could be expected under the circumstances. Portrayed as a Christian child, living with a Polish family, she went to school and played with children in her neighborhood. She just had to be careful not to reveal her true identity. The widow, explained to curious neighbors, Nusha's parents, her cousins, had been killed in the war. She was taking care of Nusha until other arrangements could be made. 

At the end of the war, the widow, who had not expected to like the girl and had reluctantly agreed to take her in, was saddened that Nusha would soon be leaving her. Nusha had been good and bright, well liked by her friends and teachers and the woman had grown attached to her charge. The widow was not happy when Vita got in touch and arranged to be reunited with her daughter. Nevertheless, she dressed Nusha in her prettiest dress and walked with her to the train station at the appointed time. Just before they reached the station, as they were crossing the railroad tracks, a stray bullet, one of the last ones fired of the war, ricocheted and hit Nusha in the back. 

Not all Polish people had lost their hostility just because the war had ended. The shot could have been intentional, we will never know. Vita cradled Nusha in her arms, rocking back and forth, wailing with anguish and tears, while her only daughter lay dying on the platform of the train station. Vita wondered how it was that only two days ago she rejoiced that the two people she loved most survived the war. How could it be that now, both were lost. 

We can never understand the precariousness of fate. Several times my parents and I, under hideous circumstances, had come so close to death. But for some reason we survived. Yet this golden haired girl who had everything in her favor, died at the very end of the war, when there was supposedly a cessation of gunfire, when everything screamed, 'she should have lived'. 

A few years after Henek's death Vita married Roman Gdanski. They lived for a while in Germany where they had a daughter, Anna. When Anna was two years old, they moved to Melbourne, Australia where Roman opened a shoe factory. Anna eventually married and they were blessed with two grandchildren, a girl and a boy. 

Vita and Roman agonized over Nusha's death until the end of their days. "If only we'd arranged to meet an hour earlier or later," if only we'd arranged to meet at a different venue'. They could not let it go. They remembered her birthday, the day she died, and at High Holy days. Inevitably, Anna, their post-war child, didn't know what to make of the signals she was getting. Why her mother, Vita, for example, locked herself in her room each year on the fifth of February because she was remembering Nusha's birthday. Was she, Anna, supposed to compete with a ghost? Would she ever live up to the expectations of what her parents thought Nusha would have been able to accomplish? Over the years, Anna became jealous and resentful of Nusha's memory. She didn't want to know anything about her half-sister and tuned out whenever her parents spoke of the war or Nusha. 

Now with both her parents gone, Anna realizes how resentful she had been. She would like to visit Poland to get a feel for the history her parents tried to tell her about. Anna has asked me several times to accompany her to Poland. Of course, I would like to see the places I was too young to remember, like the apartment where I was born. Most of all I would like to locate the Tomaszkows' and re-establish communications with them since up to now, our efforts have failed. But I recoil at the very mention of Poland and Germany. Listening to them speak, their language grating on my ears, would make me sick, so I will never set foot in those countries. But Anna one day, I'm sure, will make that journey and when she does perhaps then she'll find the peace she is longing for. 

For my father such peace was difficult to find. Before we left our home in 1942, he had asked Stefan Zytko, an old friend and whom my father was sure could be trusted, if he would hide my grandmother and Avruhm's daughter, Hendl. Above all else, my parents wanted to make sure they would be safe. Stefan assured my father he would care for them as if they were his own family. He promised no one would harm them. Unfortunately, he lied. Soon after my grandmother and Hendl were settled in his home, and we were on our way, Stefan announced he was going out to buy a few things for their comfort. He calmly walked to a Gestapo's office, and told them of the two Jews that came to his home for protection. Early the next day the Gestapo knocked on Stefan Zytko's front door. He made no attempt to hide the two people cowering in the corner, their eyes bulging with freight. He assured them it was a customer and they needn't worry. The Gestapo barged into the house, while Stefan stood dispassionately by watching them drag the woman and the little girl into the woods behind his house. We were told Stefan didn't even blink when he heard the shots that ended my grandmother and Hendl's lives. 

Learning what had happened to my grandmother, Ruchel, and Hendl, my parents had been devastated. They and Stefan had not only been colleagues but good friends for such a long time. They would have never have believed Stefan capable of such deception and brutality. Father never forgave himself for putting his faith in Stefan. Although his torment was unreasonable because no one could have known the true character of Stefan's soul. Nonetheless, father carried the idea that he and he alone sentenced his mother-in-law and niece to death. When the guilt became unbearable for him, father could not help but blame Avruhm. He thought Avruhm should have been the one to secure the safety of his mother and daughter. Why had he run off to Russia before taking care of their safety instead of leaving that responsibility to father? Although father was careful never to verbalize or demonstrate his feelings to Avruhm in any way, the memory of Ruchel and Hendl had always been a schism between them. And even though father never spoke of it to my mother, she knew him well enough to know what he was thinking and the toll their deaths had taken of him. 

Like Henek, my mother's brother, Avruhm, had also lived through the war in Russia. He, too, had spent so much time in the country's coal mines, he developed black lung disease. Later, when he came to the United States he eventually had to have one of his lungs removed. He also developed tuberculosis. During this troubling time, he stayed with us in our three-room apartment on Stanton Street. We separated all his dishes, silverware and anything he touched. We were ordered to have examinations and x-rays every month to be sure we hadn't contracted the disease. His recuperation did not go well, however, and he had to be transferred to Denver, Colorado, where there was a famous TB clinic. He stayed there almost a year before he could return home. 

In father's family, only Chil, who had escaped to Russia, survived. All the others were first in the Krak?w ghetto, then sent to labor camps and finally Auschwitz where they all perished. 

I have said that my father was a quiet man, prone to keep his feelings to himself. So we were surprised at what we saw when we went to Israel in the 1980's and visited Yad Vashem. We strolled on the Boulevard of the Righteous Christians, and came upon an old tree with a plaque that read, "To the Tomaszkows'." We looked at each other as if to ask, "could it be our Tomaszkow?" As we looked at father for his opinion, we saw the upturned lips in a shy smile. Slowly he shook his head "yes." Father told us a man he worked with in the garment district was going to Israel soon after we had lost contact with the Tomaszkows'. He had asked the man to have a tree planted in their honor while he was there but had never mentioned it to us. 





THE SKY IN ONE PIECE Hannah Podob -- Page 2