SERIALS

 

RADZIA, AMERICAN PRISONER

IN NAZI-OCCUPIED POLAND

 

by Radzia Niewiarowski

 

Distributed by the Polonia Media Network

 

CHAPTER 10

 

[Born and educated in America, Radzia accompanied her parents upon their return to Poland. There she marries a Polish Army officer and has two daughters, Irene and Dana. Although her comfortable villa in Torun was not damaged by bombing at the start of WW II, it has been taken over by a Volksdeutscher, a Pole of German descent. Likewise, the Germans have confiscated her mother's considerable real estate and bank accounts. As a result, they are all living together in a small apartment. Her husband, Edmund, is a prisoner of war.]

 

A few weeks after my mother's eviction, my younger daughter had pains in her abdomen. I delayed taking her to a doctor for fear that he might harm her. Already stories of mistreatment of the sick in the hospitals and in camps circulated in town.

But when she appeared to be in serious danger, I finally decided to see professional help. Slowly we made our way on foot to the physician. He directed us to the hospital for an immediate appendectomy. There was no choice. She was in pain, so we went.

 

The surgery took place that same day and, somehow, thanks to the Almighty, she recovered. In a few days she was to be released.

 

I arrived early in the afternoon to take her home. I could find no transportation available for her until after 7:00 p.m. I stayed with her.

 

While waiting, I noticed much excitement and movement in the hospital. I thought it was just a change of nurses from one shift to another. It wasn't.

 

I overheard one nurse say to another, "They took Dr. X and now they're in Dr. Y's office. Some nurses are gone, too."

 

I didn't know or could I comprehend what was happening.

 

At 7:00 p.m. an old skinny horse pulling a shabby cab pulled up. With the driver's help, we seated my daughter carefully. We soon reached home. Again the kind driver helped. This time he lifted her off the ground and carried her to the apartment.

 

"Thank you, sir." I paid him and closed the door, hoping to keep all dangers away.

 

I hoped in vain. When my 13-year-old daughter, Irene, saw us, she exclaimed excitedly, " Mother, the Gestapo was here!"

 

My stomach knotted.

 

"What did they want?"

 

"They wanted Dad, but I told them ... there were two of them ... that he was in an Oflag [officers' prison camp]."

 

"Did they believe you?" My heart ached.

 

"I showed them the letters Dad wrote from the camp and that seemed to satisfy them. Their next question was, 'Where is your mother, Mrs. Niewiarowska?' I told them you were in the hospital with my younger sister. Their next question was, 'What is the matter with her?' 'She had an attack of appendicitis and surgery followed.' The two left abruptly." She was frightened. She did the right thing ... saying as little as possible. If she had added that I went to the hospital to bring her sister home, they might have waited for my return.

 

I turned to my mother. "Mother, please take care of Dana. I'll leave immediately for town to stay with Uncle Tad. I won't be safe here. The Gestapo might return tonight for me."

 

I packed a few things and a toothbrush, and hastened to reach my uncle's house before the 9:00 p.m. curfew.

 

The next rumors traveled fast. Many persons were hauled away. This time it was the doctors, nurses, dentists, lawyers, city and county officials, teachers and wives of officers. I was saved by being in the hospital waiting for Dana's release. To this day I believe my daughters's sudden illness was a blessing in disguise.

CHAPTER 11

 

[Born and educated in America, Radzia accompanied her parents upon their return to Poland. There she marries a Polish Army officer and has two daughters, Irene and Dana. Although her comfortable villa in Torun was not damaged by bombing at the start of WW II, it has been taken over by a Volksdeutscher, a Pole of German descent. Likewise, the Germans have confiscated her mother's considerable real estate and bank accounts. As a result, they are all living together in a small apartment. Because the Gestapo is arresting officers' wives, Radzia fears for her personal safety. Her husband, Edmund, is a prisoner of war.]

 

As the German occupation continued, restrictions became more numerous. Food was scarce and a Volksdeutscher I.D. [indicating German descent] was very essential to live well. Placards warning against hoarding were posted everywhere. Disregarding the edicts meant deportation to a labor camp.

 

On October 17, 1939, a secret message from Hitler to his prospective Governor-General in Warsaw instructed: (a) keep the standard of living low; (b) eliminate Polish intellectuals; and (c) henceforth, Poland will be a source of labor for the German Reich.

 

Individuals possessing the special I.D. could obtain milk, eggs, white bread, meat, fruit, vegetables, candies, chocolates and cookies from well-stocked shops labeled "Nur fur Deutschen" ["Only for Germans"]. Those who did not cooperate and accept the I.D. cards could secure only chewy, black bread, a little margarine, beet jam and a limited amount of skimmed milk three times a week.

 

As with shortages of food, there was also a need for more apartments. Germans were constantly being displaced from their homeland and brought to the "Corridor" to take, literally, possession of what they considered theirs.

 

My mother lost her apartment all her possessions a few weeks earlier. Maria, my helper, had by this time left us to return to her parents in the country. Now it was my turn to move. We were all evicted, as well as my Aunt Julia, who had been occupying the maid's room.

 

"Where to?" This shock made me numb.

 

"You can go to the basement of the villa you once occupied. They just couldn't stop humiliating us.

 

In the basement of our villa were two rooms, a tiny dark kitchen and a dingy restroom with no shower or tub. There was also a storage room where I could place items I did not need every day.

 

There I stored my steamer trunk. In it was my large porcelain-face doll,, thirty inches tall with movable joints, all of white kid, blue eyes that opened and shut, long dark brown curls, pink ribbons in her hair, dressed in a fancy pink gown, now faded by time, with a wide pink sash, now paled with age. My doll was thirty years old, and I treasured it. It came in the steamer trunk with me from my home in Chicago. In pre-war days she sat in the salon on the plush furniture, as if waiting for guests. I thought she would be safe here in the storage room. No one knew about her and I could, from time to time, check to see if she was safe.

CHAPTER 12

 

[Born and educated in America, Radzia accompanied her parents upon their return to Poland. There she marries a Polish Army officer and has two daughters, Irene and Dana. Although her comfortable villa in Torun was not damaged by bombing at the start of WW II, it has been taken over by a Volksdeutscher, a Pole of German descent. Likewise, the Germans have confiscated her mother's considerable real estate and bank accounts. She, the children, her mother and her aunt are being allowed to live in the basement of the villa. Her husband, Edmund, is a prisoner of war.]

 

In the meantime, the villa upstairs was occupied by a displaced German and his family from Germany. (He was a member of the brown- shirted militia, S.A., which means Sturm Abteilung or Storm Troops.)

 

This S.A. official, his wife and eight children now lived in our home. Five of the children belonged to the German Youth Organization. They wore the red armband with the black swastika.

 

The family was called the Macks ... originally Mackowski, of Polish parentage living in Germany. [This also qualified as a Volksdeutscher.]

 

When they were settled, my mother had two good ideas. She mentioned that she had an attic full of furniture, which, if he were willing, he could place in his present home. "I trust you will take good care of it."

 

He nodded.

 

We hoped for victory; he also had the same desire.

 

"If you would agree to purchase all the furniture, and all other items in the attic, so much the better." He hesitated. Then mother presented another proposition. "If you don't want to invest in the furniture, how about my giving you a list of the units? Also, I would give you a receipt to the effect you bought these articles, making it a fictitious sale."

 

Mack quickly agreed. He was happy over the deal, which cost him nothing. He was now the proud owner of a grand piano, a dining room suite ... everything, including rungs and paintings. All this for a piece of paper with the words, "Sold to Mr. Mack by B.J., May 3, 1940."

 

Somehow I felt I was going to be the winner in this war, so with faith in the future, I accepted my loss. The furniture was mine. But my mother was the matriarch, so she made the decisions.

 

Mack immediately removed everything from the garret and arranged the rugs, furniture and all else in place. In a few days they were living comfortably in my former home.

 

We occupied the basement flat. My heart was very heavy to be deprived of everything so personal and beautiful.

 

Not many days later, Mrs. Mack invited my mother and me to see how she placed our belongings.

 

My mother scanned the walls. They were all blank. "Where do you have the paintings?" she asked in surprise.

 

"Oh, they're in the sun parlor. My husband hasn't time to hang them, but we'll get to them shortly."

 

Mother knew the value of the paintings: "It's hot there, and dry. That's not good for the paintings."

 

"Yes, I know, but we don't know where to store them."

 

"Well, how about letting me keep them in the cellar. It's cool there and they won't dry up."

 

"Yes, you can take them."

 

Delighted to have them again in our possession, we attacked them in a cool and dry nook.

 

It wasn't long when we heard a great commotion upstairs. Mr. Mack was home for lunch. His wife related the story of the removal of the paintings. We could hear the angry words.

 

"Why did you let her take the paintings down to the basement? Don't you know we paid for them and they are ours?"

 

"Well, in fact, we didn't." His wife's voice. "We just gave them a receipt for them. That is not the same as paying."

 

"Don't you ever do anything again without first checking with me." He left, slamming the door, not waiting for lunch.

 

They never came for the pictures. No doubt they felt they were as safe as anywhere.

 

As Mother and I listened to the conversation, we shuddered at the thought of what would happen to us if the Germans won the war.

CHAPTER 13

 

[Born and educated in America, Radzia accompanied her parents upon their return to Poland. There she marries a Polish Army officer and has two daughters, Irene and Dana. Although her comfortable villa in Torun was not damaged by bombing at the start of WW II, it has been taken over by a Volksdeutscher, a Pole of German descent. Likewise, the Germans have confiscated her mother's considerable real estate and bank accounts. She, the children, her mother and her aunt are being allowed to live in the basement of the villa. Her husband, Edmund, is a prisoner of war.]

 

Mother had many things on her mind ... never time to brood. There were two revolvers she still held. She had not declared them; she would not help the German war effort.

 

She went to town the next day to buy some staples at my cousin's store. That evening he visited us.

 

"Hello, Ed. How are you? Strange to see you here."

 

"Your mother talked to me today about burying some guns in the garden."

 

"What? You mean to tell me she still has those guns! Didn't she surrender them?"

 

"No, she didn't. I'm going to bury them this evening among the bushes near the wooden fence."

 

"Where? We don't own any of the garden anymore. The guns could be exposed, when the Germans prepare the land for planting."

 

"We'll not bury them in the open space; only somewhere in the bushes near the fence in front."

 

My mother heard our conversation, but made no comment.

 

As it was already dark, he went for the shovel. With a flashlight she led the way to the spot, which she thought would provide a good hiding place until the time when the guns in the metal box would be needed.

 

One thing the two diggers never contemplated ... wasn't all of this activity evident from the upper and lower floors of the villa?

 

She handed the flashlight to me. They shoveled and pushed the dirt until both were satisfied that the depth was sufficient to place the steel box. They quickly covered their cache. We left, trying to disturb as few of the branches as possible.

 

For a while, I worried ... maybe needlessly.

 

Again my mother went to town to see my cousin. Again he came, but now in broad daylight.

 

I looked at him suspiciously. "What is it today?"

 

He gave me a sheepish smile. "Today we're going to hide some silver coins."

 

"Where, Ed, where?" I was frightened. "I never knew Mother still had coins. They were to have been turned in to the authorities some time ago. This mother of mine will be the death of us. Sixty-six years old and still up to tricks."

 

"Never mind, Radzia." Mother was listening. Then, turning to Ed, she said, "I thought this thick wall would be fine for the hole, don't you think so, Ed?"

 

She found a small sledge hammer and some rags. "These will muffle the sounds."

 

Every time the hammer made contact with the wall my heart sank. As Ed pounded away, I trembled. "Oh, Mother, they will feel every vibration. All of them are upstairs in the dining room. Right over us. They'll report us to the police. We'll all be sent to a concentration camp ... you, me, Ed and the children. I'm frightened. Don't you feel any compassion for us?"

 

"Ed, don't listen to Radzia. Just work. We don't have much time."

 

Ed banged and pounded into the solid wall of concrete and bricks, the rags not helping one bit. After a half-hour of pounding, the hole was ready, the steel box of silver coins placed inside, and the prepared cement smeared over the hole.

 

"Not bad," said Mother, breathing a sigh of relief.

 

Now I was really terrified and dreaded to think what else could happen.

CHAPTER 14

 

[Born and educated in America, Radzia accompanied her parents upon their return to Poland. There she marries a Polish Army officer and has two daughters, Irene and Dana. Although her comfortable villa in Torun was not damaged by bombing at the start of WW II, it has been taken over by a Volksdeutscher, a Pole of German descent. Likewise, the Germans have confiscated her mother's considerable real estate and bank accounts. She, the children, her mother and her aunt are being allowed to live in the basement of the villa. At great risk, her mother and cousin have hidden guns and money. Her husband, Edmund, is a prisoner of war.]

 

Without saying a word about her immediate plans, Mother left early one morning. We waited for her all day. Then, shortly before curfew, I went to see cousin Ed, her co-conspirator.

 

"Your mother decided she should leave for the Polish Sector?"

 

"What Polish Sector? I never heard of one."

 

"Well, in other words, she crossed the boundary between Pomerania and the district of Warsaw, to be safe from the Germans."

 

"What's going to happen to us? We have no money; the burying of the guns in the garden and now the coins in the basement were not smart things to do. Oh, dear, I hope she made the right choices." I was fearful of the result. She shouldn't have done this to us; and how and where would she make the crossing, and with whom?

 

"Ed, where's the opening that she could easily and safely pass through? Do you know? Whom did she contact in town, so I can get in touch and find out more?"

 

Ed did not know the answers, so I left to hurry home before curfew. Now we lived in uncertainty for our safety. How long would Mack be silent? As a loyal Brown Shirt, he should report the incidents instantly to the Gestapo.

 

One day he noticed Mother was not with us. Later in the afternoon he questioned me, "Where is your mother? We haven't seen her around."

 

What should I reply? Tell the truth ... I didn't know her whereabouts. Would he call me a liar? The truth was I did not know and I dared not say so. Why? He wouldn't believe me.

 

I also worried about why Mother did this. Why didn't she confide in me? A good reason for this was, if I were interrogated under duress, I would be able to say, "I do not know." And so, I finally answered, "I do not know."

 

For many weeks I lived in fear. Finally word came. "Mother is in Warsaw." Then I knew she would be living with my sister, Lillian.

 

A heavy load fell from my mind. Good that she's there! But how safe was Warsaw with the Gestapo daily conducting their manhunts in homes and on the streets? Everywhere. For awhile we focused on our living in Torun.

 

Meanwhile, Cousin Ed was arrested. "Why?" I asked Stefanie, his wife.

 

She sniffled. "He had two watches. They were gold. The Germans claimed he was hoarding jewelry."

 

It took me a few days to learn where he was. Finally, I received permission to visit him.

 

He looked wan and frightened, like a beaten dog. He was behind iron bars.

 

A guard was with me. Ed and I looked at each other, trying to see from the expression of the face whether we could read the thoughts of the other. Silence. No one said a word. Yet the three minutes would soon expire.

 

Ed started. "How are you? How is everything at home, in the house, in the garden?" He repeated again, "In the garden?"

 

I knew only one thing worried him in the garden ... the cache of guns buried in the ground.

 

I tried to be calm and reassure him. "Everyone is okay, and the garden is okay, too."

 

He breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Soon a guard took Ed to his cell. I returned with the other guard to the exit.

 

"Thank you." And off I went, trying to figure out the reason for Ed's incarceration. He was so worried about the guns and the coins, which he had a hand in hiding.

 

In a few months he was released. No charge. He came in the evening, took a shovel from the coal bin, and went into the garden with me.

 

"This is where I buried the guns. I'll take them out and drop them into the deep well. They'll be there along with the rifles, which your father-in-law threw in at the outbreak of the war."

 

"That will surely be a better and safer place ... so dig quickly."

 

With his worn shoe, he pushed the shovel straight down again and again. When a reasonably deep hole was made in the soft, cool earth, his fingers nervously sought the steel box. His heart pounded against his chest as he frantically scattered the soil deeper and wider than the original hole. There were no guns. No box. Nothing.

 

Fear clutched at both of us. What happened? Was it possible the Macks noticed us, as I had warned my mother? Did they decide to remove the contents and not report us? Would it be possible?

 

Yes, it could be. After all, they lived in our home, used our furniture and slept in our beds, while we lived as poor people, in the basement, cooking on a potbelly stove. To me, it is still a mystery.

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