SERIALS

 

RADZIA, AMERICAN PRISONER

IN NAZI-OCCUPIED POLAND

 

by Radzia Niewiarowski

 

Distributed by the Polonia Media Network - Copyright 1990 AngloPol Corporation

 

CHAPTER 15

 

[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 and her aunt are being allowed to live in the basement of the villa. Her husband, Edmund, is a prisoner of war.]

 

Life in Poland in 1941 became extremely perplexed, complicated and uncertain. Although by birth, I was an American citizen, the German authorities considered me a Pole, since I was the wife of a Polish officer. Because of that, I was not eligible for an I.D. card unless I applied officially for it. I refused to do that, because I felt down in my heart I could not renounce my American citizenship for the extras in food, which I could then purchase in the well-stocked shops displaying the "Nur fur Deutschen" ["Only for Germans"] signs. No, never. I was very sure of that. If I had accepted the German I.D. card, I would have felt I had betrayed my country and my principles.

 

I now had to find other sources of food supplies. My cousin, Ed, my mother's helper in burying treasure, had a little store on a side street. Here I could buy on credit the staples assigned to the Polish population. Sometimes he had something special under the counter. Both of us, however, had to be careful no one saw us making this transaction. Likewise, I had to be on the lookout for any inspector on the street who might want to check what I carried.

 

But this source of supply soon ended. Ed went to prison again. Poor Ed. I had to find another source.

 

As a provider, I took risks to feed my family. Being accustomed to good food before the war, it was difficult to subsist on bread, beet jam and skimmed milk, when you knew others could purchase luxuries.

 

I decided to barter clothes for eggs, butter and meat. The closets were bulging with tailored uniforms and elegant civilian clothing and footwear for both of us. Now these items were useless to me, so why not barter them for food items such as eggs, for instance? I did that one day. Into a basket I placed a pair of my husband's long shiny boots in excellent condition and covered them with a clean towel. Hurriedly, I changed to a different dress, threw a warm shawl over my shoulders and took a walk to the countryside in search of a buyer. Visions of what I would obtain for the boots sent me in high spirits on my mission.

 

Some of the farmers lived three to four kilometers [ca. 2 to 2.5 miles] away. I walked with a firm gait, enjoying the fresh, cool, autumn air in the country.

 

After many attempts to sell my merchandise, I finally found a farmer willing to exchange eggs for boots. I showed him the contents of the basket. Immediately, he asked, "How much do you ask for these?"

 

That's good, I thought. Here is a possible sale. "I want at least three dozen eggs for them. As you can see, they are quite new, as well as very elegant." I tried to impress him with my sales pitch. "These boots belonged to my husband, who won't need them now that he's in a war camp."

 

The farmer took his time appraising the footwear in the basket. "Well, eggs are hard to come by. My hens don't lay as many now that the weather is colder. But I'll give you two dozen for them. How about that?"

 

My heart sank when I heard what the farmer was willing to give me for the shiny boots.

 

I had no choice. "I'll take them, but the boots are worth more than that ... real, solid, pre-war leather boots ... and you know that, too."

 

The satisfied farmer called his wife and directed her, "Millie give me two dozen eggs."

 

She left, taking the basket with the boots in it. Soon she returned, smiling, with the eggs.

 

"Thank you, Millie." I departed, happy with the eggs to make our meals more appetizing. I was delighted with my transaction.

 

Upon reaching home, I removed one dozen eggs from the basket and placed them in a pan under a low shelf, out of sight.

The other dozen I quickly took to the coal shed, a hundred feet away, for use at a later date.

 

I put them in a container of water and lime, a liquid called "glass." It turned the water into a chalky color and preserved eggs for many months. This was a way of hoarding, and also a very serious and punishable crime.

 

Satisfied they were safe, I returned to my basement kitchen to prepare lunch for my two daughters. One came from school, the other from work. Irene, at age fourteen, was forced to quit school. No further education for the conquered Poles. Irene was assigned to deliver packages for a German tailor.

 

What should I prepare for them now that I had the eggs? Maybe crepes suzette, which they liked so very much before the hated war. We had been deprived of them for so long a time. Maybe I should save the eggs and show them later as a surprise.

 

I had been in the kitchen no more than five minutes, when I heard a sharp knock on the door.

 

Quickly, I glanced at the hiding place of the eggs to be sure they were not exposed.

 

I knew my daughters never knocked so fiercely. This must be an unfriendly and unwelcome visitor. Reluctantly, I went to the door.

 

A German guard stood there with a rifle over his shoulder.

 

I wondered why he should be here. Did he perchance follow me to check what I brought home? Or did he time his visit to see what I prepared for lunch? I motioned him in. Would he search my shabby apartment? I waited for him to speak. He glanced about, as if checking the meager living quarters. My heart sank.

 

After a full minute of silence, he snarled, "Do you know Ed Singer?"

 

Why should he question me about Ed? He and I had hidden guns in our garden early in the war. I was fearful the guard would question me on this topic.

 

Maybe the Brown Shirt Nazi living upstairs reported to the authorities that I hoarded eggs in the shed and other goings-on in the basement.

 

The guard's voice was sharp. "How well do you know him?"

 

"I knew him before the war. He's my cousin's husband."

 

"And you get your food supplies from him?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Do you possess and I.D. card?"

 

"No, I don't."

 

"What does he provide you with ... maybe butter and eggs?" He was now sarcastic.

 

I trembled as he looked closely at me, but my answer was quick and firm. "No, he doesn't supply me with butter and eggs.

 

Look at what I'm cooking for my children. Barley soup on a soup bone. For dessert, a slice of dark bread with red beet jam.

 

If I were lucky enough to have eggs, each would get an omelette."

 

He looked in the pot and saw the thick barley soup bubbling. I held my breath. Would he find something to accuse me? No.

 

He left without saying another word. Such a relief to see him leave my basement lodging.

 

I glanced at the place where my newly acquired eggs lay hidden and smiled. I outsmarted the Germans this time and hoped to do so many more times before the war was over.

 

When he glanced about the kitchen, I kept my eyes averted from the large, low cupboard. Behind its door were many bottles of liqueur, made from fruits gathered from our garden before the war. Had he suspected?

 

From time to time I resorted to cooking cracked buckwheat with a bit of bartered salt polk and spices. When the mixture was almost ready, I added one-half cup of pig's or cow's blood, and a little vinegar. I then poured it into a large container to cool. When this gray-colored concoction was cold, it sliced like sausage. It was very nourishing, and not too unpalatable.

 

Another time, a large portion of this was set out to thicken. My girls and I went for our daily, long walk. We walked through town in the direction of the bridge over the Vistula [Wisla]. It was June, 1941. The German army was advancing east to Russia with all its supplies. Some of the soldiers, riding with the equipment, began to wave at us, thinking we were Germans. When, however, we did not return their greetings, nor did we intend to, they shook their clenched fists at us. Fortunately for us, they could not leave the convoy. Otherwise, there would have been three victims of German atrocities.

 

By this time we had enough excitement for the day. We turned back and discussed our next meal. "Mom, I'm hungry. I know our lunch will be delicious," said Dana, the younger one.

 

"You know, Mom, I never liked buckwheat, oatmeal or any other kind of cereal before the war. But now I really enjoy eating it," added Irene.

 

I, also, counted on a good and hearty meal.

 

We hurried back to our old Auntie, who was alone in the basement flat. She could not undertake the long walks with us. We opened the door ... "We're home, Auntie," we greeted her spontaneously.

 

I set the table for four and went to the place where I had put the container to cool. A third of it was gone!

 

Poor Auntie was so hungry that she could not wait for us and helped herself. Well, instead of two meals, we had one hearty one.

 

Many times we longed for the goose we had in the country at the beginning of the war.

 

The worst thing was that our source of animal blood stopped and, therefore, our supply of blood sausage was ended.

CHAPTER 16

 

[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 and her aunt are being allowed to live in the basement of the villa. Her husband, Edmund, is a prisoner of war.]

 

With less nourishing food, our health was deteriorating. I was concerned about Irene's cough. A medical doctor, a friend of the family, X-rayed her. She had a spot on her lung. He was a specialist, the only one in town, thus he escaped deportation.

Dana and Auntie were emaciated. I had anemia. My dear aunt was weaker every day. She was 87 years old now. No longer was she capable of taking care of her personal needs.

 

I was not strong enough to lift her or assist her to a chair. Something had to be done. I went to the hospital operated by the Germans to report the state of my aunt's health.

 

The clerk listened attentively. "We'll take her off your hands. But we don't guarantee how long she'll be here."

 

In despair, I consented to her transfer. The ambulance arrived soon after I came home. Two orderlies brought out the stretcher.

They had difficulty taking Auntie. She summoned all her strength and struggled as they fastened the belt over her. She screamed, "I'll run away from them, I will. I don't want to go with them." Her screams were heartbreaking. I just stood there with despair in my heart. She did not want to go. She cried, "I'll be good. I won't cause any trouble. Don't send me away with them, please."

 

I felt guilty. This happened on Saturday. Monday I went to see her.

 

The nurse told me, "She died yesterday, in the afternoon."

 

So, she didn't last long. They just put her to sleep. After all, she was old and Polish. Often I wonder whether her going to the hospital hastened her death; and yet I could in no way help. I, myself, was seriously ill.

 

Shortages in food, coal and coke for burning were everywhere. I had a huge supply of boards in the garage, also two-by-fours. I even would chop down the various fruit trees growing in the garden, if only I had help.

 

Soon my Uncle Tad found a helper for me. He was a mentally handicapped, young man in his twenties.

 

He came regularly, twice a week. We put up a sawhorse at the side of the garage. In the shed hung a long, steel saw with ugly, serrated teeth.

 

He placed the boards on the horse, he at one end and I at the other. We pulled and pushed the saw. It went z-z-z-z-z over and over. We cut enough and some more to last until the next time Tony came.

 

In the living room of our quarters stood a three-foot pot-belly stove. On top of it we kept a teakettle filled with water for our tea or chicory coffee, and for our evening ablutions.

 

After several months ... suddenly no more Tony. I inquired about him, found out where he lived, and went to visit him.

 

He lay on his cot, coughing and eyes tearing.

 

"How do you feel, Tony? I miss you in the garden. There is no one helping me cut the wood. Only you and I could do it, and now you're sick. What shall I do?"

 

"Oh, I'll get well and come and help you."

 

That was the last time I saw Tony.

 

The ambulance came, my uncle told me, and took him to the hospital. And Tony was no more. Mentally retarded people were of no value to the Nazis.

 

Now that Tony was gone, I had no hope ever to cut all the planks, boards and loose wood around the premises, and have them stacked in a neat pile against the wall in the shed. The pot-bellied stove would no longer have fuel to keep us warm and comfortable in winter.

 

My children were too small to handle the heavy saw, and to weak.

 

Irene worked at delivering packages and, when she returned home, she was too tired to manipulate the other end of the saw with me.

 

To our great surprise, a ration of coal, small, but it was coal, was allotted to us. I couldn't believe it.

 

With the help of Paula, my cousin, who lived in the town, we quickly put together an old beat-up wagon ... a wagon pulled by one person while another pushed it. Who would ever believe it; it was I pulling the battered wagon!

 

With the reserve uncut wood in the shed, and this coal, we could survive any cold winter. Going to bed early was a tested way to keep warm and save fuel.

 

We read books. I studied Russian and the girls continued with their German.

 

Considering the guards and soldiers constantly invading our privacy for various reasons, it was necessary to understand what they wanted. The German language learned in my high school days was now put to good use.

 

The streets of Torun were empty except for those returning home after their search for food supplies. More men and women were being rounded up and sent to labor camps.

 

Even though few persons walked the streets, soldiers still patrolled them.

 

One early evening, two hours before curfew, I was returning home from my regular shopping. I saw two soldiers on the other side of the street. Suddenly, one of them hurriedly started to cross the street.

 

Seeing his move, I began to run as quickly as I could. He followed fast. Since his rifle hindered him in the chase, he gave up when he saw his pursuit was futile.

 

I continued to run until I reached my garden. I was safe at home, but out of breath. I was careful never to be on the streets again after sundown.

CHAPTER 17

 

[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 and the children are being allowed to live in the basement of the villa, but are in poor health. Her mother has successfully relocated in Warsaw, but Aunt Julia has died without proper medical care. Edmund, her husband, is a prisoner of war.]

 

Unpleasant things continued to happen. More heckling against Poles; more trouble for my children.

 

The younger girl was now enrolled in a public school taught by teachers imported from Germany. The Polish instructors were in labor camps or exterminated.

 

The discipline in the school was extremely strict. The unfortunate Polish children, before the war attended private schools where scholastics were stressed, yet there was ease and comfort. Now they hated the teachers and what they learned under the new system.

 

The Polish language was absolutely forbidden. If a teacher heard the pupils talking in their native tongue, they were slapped on the mouth and scolded.

 

Many a time the pupils were unaware the instructor was in the room; upon exiting they whispered in Polish to each other.

 

Soon the girls heard the command of the teacher to return to await punishment.

 

The younger one, Dana, never reported the number of times the teacher hit her hand with a ruler for some small infringement. She now tells me after so many years.

 

Dana became a very frightened child, so much so that, when we went down the street together, she was the first to warn me to speak German when someone approached. We immediately switched to German ... "Ja, ja [Yes, yes] or nein, nein [no, no]," depending on the question. As soon as the coast was clear and no one within hearing distance, we resumed our Polish conversation. Diligently, the girls studied German.

CHAPTER 18

 

[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 and the children are being allowed to live in the basement of the villa, but are in poor health. Her mother has successfully relocated in Warsaw. Edmund, her husband, is a prisoner of war.]

 

In March, 1941, Irene reached her fourteenth year. Her education was finished. She was assigned to a tailor shop. There she worked diligently to keep her job and not be sent to a labor camp.

 

I don't recall her being paid for her services. She was at least safe from deportation to a camp.

 

During this time, when in need of factory labor, the Nazis made frequent unexpected raids during the night, taking whomever they found in the homes. Those kidnapped landed in various labor camps. Irene was safe for awhile.

 

Excitement and fear increased among the townspeople. Men were being taken at night and sent along with the army to help support it. Every day news spread that John L., Frank G., were gone; finally Irene's boss wanted to see me.

 

"Mother, Mr. S. wants to talk to you."

 

Her statement frightened me. "What for?"

 

"He wants to tell you about me."

 

"And what is it? Do you know what he wants to talk to me about?"

 

"Yes, Mother. He wants to propose that you turn Volksdeutsch [one who claimed or accepted German nationality]. Then he would sponsor me and I would be safe from deportation." She spoke in a timid voice.

 

"Irene, darling, it just happens I made arrangements with two American-born women, Sophie and Kitty, to go to the Swiss Embassy in Berlin to take care of my U.S. citizenship. But I will go to Mr. S. to see what he has in mind."

 

"My daughter's employer presented his case. "Mrs. Niewiarowski, Irene is a very good worker and very capable. It would be wise for her to go to school for further training. But as it is, she is not permitted to go further. You need to change your status from Polish to Volksdeutsch. This can be done with little trouble. With the proper I.D. card comes lots of benefits in food, including meat and white flour. Irene is a frail child and she needs good, wholesome food to keep well."

 

"Mr. S., I have already made arrangements to go to Berlin."

 

He looked surprised.

 

"I will see about my citizenship. As you probably know, I am a native-born U.S. citizen. I will not decide to be a Volksdeutscher, if I don't need to. I hope to get a pass from the police to leave day after tomorrow." I left with a satisfied feeling.

 

It was after my conversation with Irene's boss that I went to visit my very good and close friends in town.

 

Kate greeted me. " Well, Radzia, now you look happy and satisfied, as in the pre-war days."

 

"Why? Why should I be any different today from yesterday? Nothing changed for me."

 

Surprised, she exclaimed, "Didn't you sign the Volksdeutsch list today? You know, it was the last day and those who don't sign up will be in great trouble."

 

"No, Kate, I didn't sign it. I'm going to the Swiss Embassy in Berlin in a few days to inquire about my political status. When I return, I'll tell you all about it."

 

We then resumed our conversation about the scarcity of food. Kate informed me she would be receiving some of the luxury items. She was sorry for me and my children.

 

As time passed, the officers in the camp were allotted a parcel of ground to grow a garden. My husband knew the value of a plot of ground from pre-war days. It gave him a sense of fulfillment and peace of mind. The garden prospered under his untiring and patient care. Vegetables sold to fellow prisoners gave Edmund a little income. This was augmented with the winnings over the poker table.

 

One time he mailed me 600 German marks. That was an enormous amount of money. But I really could not purchase anything of value or extra food, because of my Polish status. Of course, had I declared myself Volksdeutsch, there would have been no limit to the goodies I could purchase. The Volksdeutsch card was the official entree to all the shops.

 

For the time I had the German marks, I did not need to barter clothes. The marks were sufficient for my regular trips to the countryside.

 

My children also did not long for the various items still on sale in the shops. The war weaned them of the goodies. We subsisted on the nutritious barley soup and the dark, chewy bread. Once in awhile I could buy, from under the counter through my cousin, a small ring of sausage. The ethnic [Polish of German descent] farmer took chances selling dairy products to a Polish woman.

 

With some of this money, which he could from time to time mail me, I bought food items in the meagerly outfitted stores for the underprivileged.

 

Now I used some of it to purchase a round-trip ticket to Berlin. On the way I hoped to stop in Grossborn, my husband's detention camp, which was on the same route to Berlin. I prepared a shoebox of goodies ... some sausage, hard-boiled eggs, a small carton of cookies and some candy.

 

In the morning of the next day, I met my two American friends at the appointed time in the railroad station. Upon spotting the shoebox, which I carried under my arm, Kitty asked, "Why the shoebox? We can get something to eat in Berlin, when we arrive there."

 

"Of course, we can. But this I'm taking to my husband. I'm planning to get off at Grossborn, which I noticed is on the way to Berlin. I do so want to take it to him, as well as to see him. It's been such a long time."

 

"Well, lots of luck to you, but I doubt if you'll get to see him."

 

"I'll never know until I try," I added, while the train went clickety-clack over the rails.

 

When we reached the Grossborn station, I left the train with my shoebox. The other continued on to Berlin. (We stranded Americans intended to arrange for our passage on a Swedish ship.)

 

I didn't know the direction to the officers' camp, but with my knowledge of the German language, I soon found myself walking in the right direction.

 

It was a long half-hour walk outside the town, along a dusty road. Soon in the distance I saw a high wire fence stretching for miles. My heart felt compassion for the inmates.

 

Coming closer, I noticed a barbed wire topping the fence. Tall guard houses loomed at frequent intervals.

 

I walked very slowly, hoping to attract attention. Maybe one of the prisoners would come close enough for me to ask for my husband.

 

Alas! No one was about ... in fact, it looked deserted. I walked to the entrance gate. Grossborn Oflag [Officers' Camp]. Here thousands of Polish officers were confined.

 

Hesitantly, I pulled the knocker on the gate. I waited a few minutes, my heart pounding.

 

A German guard talked to me through the bars. "What do you want?" he asked curtly. "Do you have a pass."

 

"I didn't think I needed one," I answered very quickly, adding, "I'm on my way to Berlin to the Swiss Embassy to try to obtain transportation to the United States."

 

"Wait here. I'll talk to the commanding officer."

 

After waiting ten long minutes, I was still on the outside of the gate, clutching my shoebox. At last I was admitted into the office of the commanding officer.

 

There sat a middle-aged officer. "What is your business here?" asked the officer in a defiant voice.

 

"I am Mrs. Niewiarowski. My husband is here as a prisoner and I would like to see him. I also have news for him. I will be going to the United States with our two young girls, and I thought he should be notified. I also brought some food for him. It's here in this box." To be so naive to think I could accomplish this so easily! I soon realized how wrong I was. The officer of the day began to rattle off the rules of violations of the camp, pertaining to an appearance of persons, especially an American woman without authorization papers or a permit to visit a prisoner in camp.

 

"Well, first of all, you had no business coming here. You cannot see him. And he is not to know about your transport to America. Here is a piece of paper. Write him a letter, but not a word about America. You can leave the box here. We'll take care of that." My stomach knotted. Quickly he pushed a slip of paper in front of me.

 

I felt faint at what he said. Not to meet my husband after all my efforts and longing to see him. Then, to write a letter about what? The weather? Not to mention America! What else, if not the most important fact that we might soon leave for the United States.

 

I reluctantly gazed at it, and finally decided not to write anything but a short note: "Dear Edmund, I was here. Your wife, Radzia."

 

When the officer read my brief note, he was furious. His face turned red and he swore in German.

 

Since I couldn't give my husband my reason for coming to the camp, I decided not to write anything.

 

It was an unheard of thing to visit the compound, but I, in my naivete, did it.

 

The C.O., now composed, stood up and warned me, "Mrs. Niewiarowski, you have only two hours to leave the premises of the camp and the town. If you are not on the next train, 4:00 p.m., to Berlin, you will suffer the consequences." I was frightened and sad.

 

It was 2:00 p.m. already. Upon hearing such a threat, I decided to speed my departure from the area. With a sinking heart I walked past the tall fence, hoping to see someone. Unfortunately, no one was in sight. I returned to the railroad station and was soon on my way to Berlin. How I longed to touch my husband and feel his arms around me.

 

I didn't wish to be left behind. If I disobeyed the officer, a squad car would be watching out for me to put me away in another camp.

 

I reached Berlin in a few hours, and my friends, Sophie and Kitty, waited for me at the railroad station. I was happy to see them.

 

The next morning we arrived at the Swiss Embassy. There I saw many Polish American women waiting their turn in line.

 

When it was my turn, I asked the secretary for information concerning the transports. "Yes, there is a transport of Americans leaving May 8th." It was now the end of April, 1941. "Do you want your name put on the list?"

 

Suddenly faced with this question ... just one week to get ready ... I answered, "No, I can't go next week. What will I do with all my belongings? Just leave them?" I did not know at this time that this could really happen. "No, I can't go next week. Is

there another transport in the near future?"

 

"Yes, there is one May 15th."

 

"I have two daughters. I'd like them added to the list along with me."

 

"That's impossible."

 

"Well, then my answer is a definite No."

 

The three of us, Sophie, Kitty and I, left the Embassy without accomplishing our mission. On the way back they questioned me about my visit to my husband. "What? You didn't see him? What happened that you missed seeing him? Did the German officer give you any trouble? How about the shoebox?"

 

With sadness, I answered all their questions. Having arrived home, each went her way.

 

As we parted for home no one was quite sure what would happen next. I kept in touch with Sophie and, when in town, I visited her and was informed of the latest news from the front. She had a radio hidden in her apartment and thereby was well-informed of the happenings in the world.

CHAPTER 19

 

[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 and the children are being allowed to live in the basement of the villa, but are in poor health. Her mother has successfully relocated in Warsaw. Radzia sought transport to America, but refused to leave without her children. An attempt to visit her husband, a prisoner in an officers' camp, was unsuccessful.]

 

The regular routine of house arrests, round-ups and transports leaving for labor camps continued. Those of us who were still around wondered who would go next. In the meantime rumors of atrocities reached us. One day I went to see my dressmaker to try to repair my threadbare dress. While waiting for the seamstress to open the door, I heard frantic sobbing and doleful moaning from another flat.

 

"What happened? Bad news from the camp?" I asked.

 

Frances replied, "Yes, my neighbor received a little box today; a gift from the prison authorities of Stutthof, a concentration camp. It contained two small pieces of bone ... a part of her son's jaw."

 

"Inhuman!" I exclaimed.

 

"Yes, it's true. I saw the pieces and the letter from him. I can swear to it."

 

I wanted to console the grieving mother, but I couldn't find words to ease her sorrow, so I went home, thinking of the hardships the troubled Polish nation had to endure. She heard no further word about her son. It wasn't long before we heard of friends and acquaintances who never returned. Times were getting to be very bad ... no one walked with a smile. Food was scarce, the winter was cold and life was a long string of miseries.

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