SERIALS

 

RADZIA, AMERICAN PRISONER

IN NAZI-OCCUPIED POLAND

 

by Radzia Niewiarowski

 

Distributed by the Polonia Media Network - Copyright 1990 AngloPol Corporation

 

Chapter 30

 

[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. Her husband, Edmund, became a prisoner of war. She and the children were allowed to live in the basement of the villa, but her mother successfully relocated in Warsaw. Radzia sought transport to America, but refused to leave without her children. Now she, as other American women, has been arrested and is in a camp in Germany.]

 

At our camp there was a provisional medical center. One of the internees served as a nurse. She dispensed aspirin for aches and pain. An old retired doctor living in the village was called for emergencies. Referrals were made to see a physician in a hospital in Ravensburg, some 20 kilometers [ca. 12.5 miles] away. With one guard in attendance, eight internees went for medical help with him on the bus.

 

On one such trip I had a very serious encounter with the guard.

 

As the months dragged on in the camp, because of the poor nourishment and lack of medical help, I developed a skin disease. My eczema became progressively worse. Although vegetables and fruit were grown in the large camp garden, they were not for the prisoners.

 

In the meantime, my eczema spread and worsened. I anxiously awaited permission to seek the help of a skin specialist. How could they refuse? Finally, my name appeared on the list of women, who were to see the doctor in the town 20 kilometers away. Seven of the internees, who were part of our small group of eight from the camp, went regularly to see the doctor in town--a long, uncomfortable ride by bus. This was always called by them "a freedom spree," a chance to see the outside world, as well as getting the needed medical help.

 

When the day finally came, a bitterly cold wind blew, piercing through our worn coats and numbing our gloveless hands. Our escort, a burly German guard with a gruff voice, hurried us to the bus stop. Despite the cold, I was happy to see the outside world. After waiting patiently for the bus to arrive, we were elated to find a seat and sit down, after each of us paid our fare.

As soon as the bus started on its slow, sputtering, jerky way, a buzz of excited conversation could be heard--talk about the town, about beloved families, reminiscing about better times--all the while our guard kept a watchful eye on his wards, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

 

After a few stops to pick up the German people on their way to the market, all seats on the bus were soon taken. Women with heavy loads of bright red, golden-yellow and green apples looked toward the rear, hoping to spot a vacant seat. But there was no free space--we were already packed to capacity. So the newcomers had to stand and be jostled from side to side as the loaded bus creaked wearily to town.

 

The noise of conversation rose steadily. Loud complaints were heard from those standing, friendly prattle could be overheard between old neighbors, and our little group of eight could be heard gossiping happily about many things and about the town to which we were going.

 

Suddenly, the guard's voice rang out above the noise. "All internees will rise and give their places to the German passengers!"

 

What? There was immediate commotion among the riders. Will the women prisoners give up their seats to the Germans? The order was a way of humiliating us, especially since we were ill. This unexpected command broke our train of thought and alerted us to the real situation. The townspeople looked around where we were sitting. There was a long, grave silence. Slowly, fearfully, the internees rose one by one, standing aside as the newcomers took their seats. That is ... all stood except me.

 

The guard, who had been watching us the whole time, waited a few moments, then repeated his command. I sat quietly, not moving, as if I had not heard his order. All eyes were on me now. I didn't move. The guard pushed his way toward me, tapped me on the shoulder and said forcefully, "Mrs. Niewiarowski, relinquish your seat immediately."

 

It seemed as though all breathing stopped. Anxious eyes were focused one me, waiting ... I closed my eyes tightly to draw on some inner strength, as I took a deep breath, and said softly, "No, I will not give up my seat."

 

One could almost hear the surprise, consternation and shock of the other passengers. No sign of emotion showed on the guard's face as he again tapped me on the shoulder, now vigorously. "Mrs. Niewiarowski, you will accompany me to the Commanding Officer when we return."

 

I shrugged my shoulders, said nothing, and remained seated. After a few minutes, the stunned silence gradually gave way to cautious whispering. Fewer heads turned toward me and soon the riders returned to their private thoughts, and everyone breathed easier for it.

 

No more incidents marred the uneasy peace on the way to town. I sat quietly, half hoping the guard just might forget my "no." After leaving the bus, we lined up in two's, the guard following us. Walking through town, I noticed a shortage of food from one store to the next, looking for something other than staples to take home to their families. Merchants tried to ignore the scant food supply by covering their store windows with cardboard. Signs reading "no sugar," "no cocoa," "no coffee" were common. One housewife with a large family wrung her hands in frustration, faced with the prospect of feeding her family potatoes, beans and sauerkraut for lunch and supper for yet another week.

 

We took care of our medical business and returned to the bus. All of us had plenty of room on the trip back; most of the bus riders stayed in town for the whole day. We talked and gossiped on the way back. I still wondered, if perhaps the guard had forgotten his promise--I hoped he would forget, since I had caused no more trouble and made every effort to be an ideal prisoner.

 

There was a grove of apple trees just inside the perimeter of the camp. After stepping off the bus, one of the internees asked the guard if we might pick up the apples that had fallen from the trees. Surprisingly, he agreed. The women spread out over the grove, quickly picking the apples from the ground and, with a watchful eye on the guard, would from time to time pluck a big rosy apple from the branches, which were bending with the abundant harvest. I was picking apples somewhat absentmindedly, when an all too familiar voice briskly called out my name and ended my daydreaming.

 

My apple picking stopped. I looked at the guard from under half- closed eyes, then raised my head and stood up slowly. He beckoned me with his right index finger, as one would beckon a mischievous child.

 

I approached slowly. I hoped the tremulous shaking inside me did not show on the outside.

 

"Mrs. Niewiarowski, you will see me at the gate and you will go with me to the Commanding Officer."

 

I shuddered. Damn, he didn't forget--the mean bastard; I swore inside.

 

I turned away and resumed picking apples, assuming an air of indifference. There was little pleasure for me now. One by one, my fellow prisoners wished me luck.

 

Finally, we approached the gate. It opened automatically and shut with a sharp, metallic clang. Our short trip to freedom ended. There at the gate was the C.O., waiting. The guard walked quickly up to him, saluted stiffly, then spoke in an undertone; I knew he was talking about me. The other seven women were dismissed. They walked quietly away, without looking back once, leaving me alone with the two Germans.

 

The C.O. turned abruptly, started walking to his office. The guard turned to me and made a motion for me to follow him. I followed meekly. The C.O. took his place behind his ornately carved desk. He made a grunting sound as he cleared his throat and asked, "What have you to say?"

 

I shook visibly for a brief instant. The sharpness of his voice grated on my ears, but with effort I overcame my fright and controlled myself. The last thing in the world I wanted was for this Nazi to think that I was afraid and shuddered before him. Quickly now I had to reply--two points I had to remember--that I was a sick woman--this was perhaps my best excuse--and that I had paid for my seat like the German passengers. So, I replied with slow and measured dignity. "I was sick, so I could not get up; that is why I went to town. I also paid my fare just like everyone else, so I considered these sufficient reasons to remain seated."

 

I tried to make it not appear as if I had willfully disobeyed the guard--I stressed the fact that I was ill, though perhaps I wasn't that sick. It was the principle of the thing.

 

The C.O. listened to my explanation, then, as if I had said nothing, began a lengthy monologue, explaining that when one was a prisoner in a camp, one obeyed the guards. Next, he enumerated the various possible consequences of my insubordination. While he spoke to me, I stood listening. I refrained from answering. I was in enough trouble already. My heart pounded. I waited for him to finish.

 

Then I hear him saying, "The next time you are so sick that you cannot stand when commanded, you remain in camp." His lack of logic appalled me. He paused for a second, then continued, "No letters, no cards for a month."

 

No use to appeal to him for a lighter punishment. He finished abruptly. I stood in front of him, not moving. For a few seconds, my mind went blank. I was so stunned, I couldn't understand what he said.

 

He rudely awakened me from my stupor with a sharp order. "Leave."

 

This brought me to my senses. I silently took leave of him and the guard, who was witness to the scene.

 

There was nothing I could do about his decision. Cutting off communication with my family was one of the cruelest punishments he could have inflicted. He must have had some idea of how much mail meant to a prisoner, but there was nothing to do but accept his verdict.

 

I was eager to tell my friends of my encounter with the C.O., but somehow I had a feeling I should go to bed, even though it was only 5:00 p.m. No sooner did I lie down than one of the guards came through to check.

 

He saw me in bed and seemed surprised. It was with feigned compassion that he said, "Mrs. Niewiarowski, aren't you feeling well? Why aren't you out walking with the others?"

 

With affected sorrow, I replied, "I am ill. The best place for me is in bed."

 

He left as quickly as he had come. Lying there in bed, I silently thanked God for my guardian angel's warning--that curious, foreboding, which I had just a few minutes before, had saved me from another punishment, no doubt. How was I to know why that guard came in, unannounced, at a time when all the prisoners always took their walks. Did he come to check on me? ... Did the C.O. send him in to see if I was faking illness? ... Did he want to catch me red- handed in a lie, which would give him a good reason to transfer me to Ravensbruck, the most hated extermination camp for women in Germany? ... No one would ever know.

 

The following day, unexpectedly, the International Red Cross Commission visited our camp and heard the report about the bus incident. The Commission asserted that henceforth any internee, who rode the bus and paid her fare, would remain seated. No guard could order her to relinquish her place in the bus for any German.

 

Transports from the camp occurred from time to time. On one occasion as many as fifty women left in a large army truck to the railroad, to be shipped home to England. Many of the eligible candidates for departure declined to go; they preferred to remain.

 

In January, 1944, a transport of Americans was being readied. I happened to be on the list at that time. I appeared before the C.O. to notify him that I would not go.

 

"Why not?"

 

"I have two daughters in Warsaw, who are living with their aunt."

 

"What's that got to do with you?"

 

"Lots," I replied. "I will not leave without them."

 

"Did you say they were in Warsaw?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Today is Friday and the transport leaves Monday. There is no way we could bring the children here on time."

 

"Well, then, cross me off the list. I will not go." Monday came around; the transports left. I felt no remorse.

 

The C.O. called me in to get the data on my children. Nothing else happened. I left his office.

Chapter 31

 

[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. Her husband, Edmund, became a prisoner of war. She and the children were allowed to live in the basement of the villa, but her mother successfully relocated in Warsaw. Radzia sought transport to America, but refused to leave without her children. Now she, as other American women, has been arrested and is in a camp in Germany. She has an opportunity to be released, but again refuses to leave without her daughters.]

 

As the war continued over Europe, air raids became more frequent. We were prepared for the worst. Allied planes flew over the campsite by day and at night.

 

Now this began as an ordinary night. We were asleep in our beds as usual, our clothes and our hosiery neatly folded and placed carefully on the chairs at the foot of our beds. Lined up in orderly fashion beside each bed were our shoes, ready to slip on in case of emergency.

 

This evening, Minnie didn't feel well and did nor follow her usual custom of tidily arranging her few belongings around her bed. Apparently thinking to herself that this night was not going to be any different from the others, she threw herself on the creaking bed and removed her false teeth. "After all, I won't need them till morning," she mumbled sleepily, having no idea of what was to come. She fell asleep promptly.

 

The sharp gong of the alarm rang out. The guards rushed down the long corridors of our rooms, ordering us to the basement, which served as a bomb shelter for the camp. The women threw their coats over their shoulders, slipped their bare feet into the cold, threadbare shoes as best they could, and shuffled their way through the dimly-lit corridors to the basement.

 

But not Minnie! She refused to budge--command or no command! In the dark, she groped and pawed through the sheets on her bed, frantically trying to find her teeth. Finally, in desperation, she bellowed, " I'm not going to the cellar, that's for certain. I won't be seen without my teeth. I'd rather be killed with my teeth in, than be alive without them."

 

One of the inmates, Kristi, who had not left yet, came to her aid. Slowly, she inched her way under the sheets and blankets until she felt something cold and hard lying at the foot of the bed. "Min, here they are," Kristi shouted triumphantly. "Now let's hurry down before the guards notice our absence."

 

Minnie quickly snatched the teeth from her and placed them in her mouth with a click. "Thank you for finding them," she mumbled gratefully and hurried with her friend to the cellar.

 

Months passed. Our detention was taking its toll. A young Polish woman of Jewish descent was brought to the Liebenau camp. Her two young children under six years of age were left behind without care. Rumors of atrocities perpetrated on little children in Poland by the Nazis reached the camp and drove Mira hysterical. She shuddered as she imagined the S.S. bashing her children's heads together. Such atrocities as banging heads were not uncommon.

 

She ran for help to the camp captain, who could in no way help her; to the Commanding Officer, who, although he sympathized with Mira, could offer no help, either. "The S.S. is not under my jurisdiction," he explained. She wrote many letters to the International Red Cross, but their advice was to go to the U.S. on a transport and seek help from there. I don't know whether she took their advice.

 

My children were still in Warsaw in my sister's care, so I was not worried yet. I didn't know what they were experiencing there. Likewise, the letters and cards were brief. I could only hope nothing unpredictable would happen to them and my family.

 

In the camp we were always awaiting news. When friendly planes passed overhead, we were hurriedly expedited to the cellar for "our safety."

 

As we walked about in the courtyard later, talking with our prison mates, we often asked, "How long, how long, are we going to be here, closed up away from our family, friends and country?"

 

The limited number of library books were soon exhausted; little news from the outside world arrived. The mail we received was censored. It was just routine information that we had.

 

But sometimes on our daily walk a rumor of yesterday became news today. We questioned that guard as to what the bombers were doing last night, what targets they were looking for. Sometimes, a guard unknowingly let escape the name of a city or locality in his conversation with us. We immediately filled in the missing pieces of the puzzle, hoping that soon more pieces would fall into place.

 

Anyhow, we knew that even bad news sometimes was good news, because by the slip of the tongue by the Germans, we knew something was happening out there. Although nothing seemed to change, it gave us a big psychological lift.

 

Here, in the camp, obedience to the rules was greatly stressed--the most important of all being not to separate from the groups on hikes outside the boundaries of the compound. It was so easy and tempting to slip away from the hikers. So, we kept watch on one another so that all returned to our quarters. One English woman attempted escape before our arrival. It must have happened on one of those refreshing hikes in the woods. When the group returned from the walk, the count was taken and one internee was missing. The whole camp was deprived of the hikes for the duration, until the prisoner was found. In the meantime, the search was on for the escapee.

 

Within a few days, the walks were resumed. No reason was given. The internees questioned the guard as to the whereabouts of the prisoner. He had nothing to say. The English captain and her secretary, upon questioning by some of the English internees, replied, "Oh, she was sent away."

 

"Where to?" pressed the English women. There was no further reply. They stopped talking or thinking about the whole affair.

 

The days became long and dreary. Oh, for some excitement! Even the news from the front was bad for our side. Boredom took over. How much longer were we to be kept behind the tall, iron gate? Sometimes, just to do something, a few of the women took the heavy brooms, which stood about, and swept the fallen leaves that covered the walks. Others, with a shovel and short brush of twigs tied together, whisked the leaves onto the shovel and dropped them in a small handcart standing nearby.

 

In the afternoons the hikers were ready to go for their walk, but now it was routine. Mushroom picking time came and passed. Not so much luck this year. Fewer heads peeped out of the not-so-damp mulch. It rained less; the result was a poor harvest.

Chapter 32

 

[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. Her husband, Edmund, became a prisoner of war. She and the children were allowed to live in the basement of the villa, but her mother successfully relocated in Warsaw. Radzia sought transport to America, but refused to leave without her children. Now she, as other American women, has been arrested and is in a camp in Germany. She has an opportunity to be released, but again refuses to leave without her daughters.]

 

One mid-morning I was in my room reading one of the books from the camp library. To stretch my legs, I stood up and approached the window that looked out on the courtyard. I noticed some unusual movement. Women scurried to the guardhouse, which stood near the entrance gate of our prison. To be so close to the gate was against the rules, yet there they were, and what was more intriguing, they carried parcels and string, which I could see dangling from their hands.

 

"What's up?" I said to myself and quickly left the window and the room.

 

I hastened to inquire of one of the women. "Where are you going with that parcel, Kitty?" I asked as she hugged the large carton to her bosom. It was neatly wrapped in heavy brown paper and tied carefully with white cord. Kitty stopped abruptly to say to me, "It's a secret," and quickly sped on her way. A short while later, another friend, Theresa, came loaded down with a carefully wrapped parcel; I repeated my question to her.

 

"I haven't time now. I'll tell you later," and she wriggled away from me.

 

These evasive responses really intrigued me. Needless to say, I did not return to my book. I followed them to the place where they deposited their bundles. I noticed on the camp bulletin board, typed in bold letters, the names of the women who carried the cartons, all supposedly my friends. All, like me, had husbands in P.O.W. camps, and my name was not among them!

I checked and double-checked, but I could not find my name on the list. Suddenly, my eyes fastened upon the name of an English woman with the dreaded address. So that's where she was, the poor escapee. The Nazis had sent her to the women's extermination camp in Ravensbruck!

 

Never was her name mentioned or the fact that the captain of our group mailed parcels to her to sweeten her life there. Who knew whether she ever received them?

 

I decided to look into my own case.

 

I went to see our captain. I wanted to know why my name was omitted. She sat at her desk, working on some papers. I greeted her with a cool, "Good morning," and then asked, "I noticed some women are sending parcels to their husbands. Why wasn't my name placed on the list of those mailing?" My voice quivered.

 

She replied haughtily, "You don't have a husband in camp."

 

I wondered who gave her such erroneous information. Instantly, I replied, "Yes, I do. My husband has been in camp since September 18, 1939. I have never been able to send him a parcel." Then, in an urgent voice, I pleaded, "I'm now asking permission of you to allow me to get one ready for him."

 

She retorted angrily, "No, the list is up. It's too late to put your name on it."

 

I turned and left, shutting the door after me. Why was it so important to send my husband a package? Food was scarce. Knowing the kind of food we received in camp, the men in prison camps probably did not receive any better. By obtaining a food parcel from his wife, Edmund's morale would be lifted, and that was immensely important to me. I was willing to share my carton with him, if permitted. It would help ease the long separation.

 

I was shocked by the treatment from our captain. One would think she would give permission after listening to my appeal. She was the one who presented the list to the Commanding Officer. Now she refused to ask for one more parcel.

 

It took me the rest of the day to overcome my disappointment and to decide what to do. Should I approach the captain again? Go to the German authorities? I decided to go straight to the C.O. the next morning and present my case. Armed with evidence--folded letters from my husband, Edmund, with the camp site stamped on them--I presented my case.

 

The C.O., convinced that Edmund was really imprisoned and surprised that I was overlooked on the list of sendees, exclaimed,

"Well, take this order with your parcel to the guard. He will accept it for shipment."

 

"Thank you very much," I said smiling and left, my heart pounding with delight.

 

One warm afternoon in June of 1944, I was out walking in the courtyard with one of the internees. As we circled the garden,

I noticed a guard leading two young girls into the compound. The younger one limped. I noticed she had a plaster of paris cast on her left leg. "Too bad, " I said to June, "I wonder how she made the trip to camp."

 

"We'll soon know, because they look as if they're prisoners just like you and me. They seem to know you," June exclaimed.

 

"Mamma," the taller one called. Strange ... the voice was familiar. But two years did make a difference and I did not recognize them, or did I expect them here in camp. The taller was the older one; she was haggard looking, while Dana, the younger, grew some and had put on some weight. She was already revealing her feminine figure.

 

Since I had not expected them; for a minute their coming surprised me. How come they are here? Who sent them? What were the conditions of their transport? Lord, did they go through what I did two years ago? But no more reminiscing. I ran to my daughters, hugged them. Our tears intermingled.

 

"Mamma, you put on some weight," was the first thing they said. "You look so different from the people in Warsaw, who are exhausted and worn out by the war."

 

I was not hurt by her remark. I was eager to hear about them. "I'm so glad and happy to see you. How was your trip here? How long did it take? How are Grandma, Aunt Lillian, and Lilliana? Did you bring any news from Dad?"

 

We talked a few minutes until the guard reminded us, "I have to take the girls to the C.O. to be recorded in the camp." He was the same officer who received me in his office after my unhappy bus experience.

 

"Alright, I'll go with them." We followed the guard, happy that we were together again. Words could not express the joy in my heart upon seeing my daughters alive, and with me.

 

"Mrs. Niewiarowski, the girls will be in the same room with you. Two of the women will vacate the room today."

 

"Thank you," I said and led the girls out of the C.O.'s office.

 

We continued our conversation. "During the transport, did you get food? Are you hungry now? What happened to your foot, my dearest?"

 

They tried to answer my questions, all of us happily excited by their arrival.

 

My daughter again repeated her question. "Mom, dear, how come you're so fat?"

 

At that time I weighed 140 pounds. I quickly explained, "Here in camp, the International Red Cross supplies us with food parcels. We have no food shortages. Wait till you see what's in them," I added.

 

"We know you have chocolate bars, prunes, raisins, spaghetti, cigarettes, Prem, and other things you sent us in the parcels."

For the present, they did not feel hungry. We had no need to hurry to our room. Instead, I led them to a bench beside on of the three buildings. We sat down to enjoy our reunion.

 

"Good gracious, Mom! We did not know how well you lived here. We also had no knowledge of what we were going to get into. But at first glance, it's a nice prison ... except for the iron bars on the windows."

 

"Darlings, I'll explain everything, but please tell me why you came here, how did you come here, and are you hungry?"

 

"The German authorities were constantly at Aunt Lillian's home interrogating her about us. She didn't want us to leave Warsaw, but finally the Nazis set a date for our departure. Meanwhile, Dana sprained her ankle while on a trip to the village near Warsaw for food. The authorities had to be notified that we could not go on the day appointed by them. They postponed our departure for a few days. In the meantime, Dana's leg was put in a cast. Aunt Lillian got some things together, such as food and clothing. She did not have time to notify you, and here we are."

 

"Now tell me, are you really hungry? When did you eat last? What was it that you had prepared for the trip? When did you leave Warsaw and did you go to any prisons?"

 

"We're not very hungry; Aunt Lillian prepared sandwiches for us. She had nice fresh butter and ham, and boiled some eggs for the journey. She gets these items on the black market. No, we're not hungry, but could we get some milk, Mom?" Dana asked with a longing in her voice. "I am very thirsty."

 

"Wait a moment. Here comes June. I'll ask her to go for the milk to the German nuns. First, let's go upstairs to our room, you can lie down on my bed. In the meantime, June will go with a packet of cigarettes to the nun and she will give some milk for you. June will say that two new internees came--two children--and Sister Josepha may give the milk to her for the cigarettes."

 

June approached the youngsters and greeted them, then asked, "Where did you come from, and how long did it take you to get here?"

 

"June, dear, they're tired and I don't know the answers yet, either. You know that they have just arrived, and they are thirsty. Would you please go to the nun for some milk for them and slip her this packet of cigarettes?"

 

"Sure, I'll go and hurry back. The nun will exchange the milk for cigarettes without any questions." Off she went.

 

While my friend was gone, Dana complained of her aching ankle. "Mom, it seems like my foot's on fire, especially that part of it where the ankle is."

 

"I'll go and see the nurse--she's an internee like us--I'll ask her what can be done to relieve your pain. Meanwhile, rest here on the bed and relax."

 

Irene, to satisfy her curiosity, was now on her knees, peering under the bed, surveying the cache of cans stored away there.

"Mom, what a treasure you have here. May I have this chocolate bar? I haven't had any since you sent us some last year; and the cans of tea and coffee and Prem here! I'd like some right away without any bread, and look, Dana, what else is here under the bed! Powdered milk and a can of dried egg yolks. What else is there that we could make something of? Mom, maybe someday we'll make a chocolate loaf cake--a no-bake cake--using the cocoa from the English parcel, powdered milk, sugar, some coffee for flavor and a bit of water. We press it all into a loaf; presto, it's ready and no need to bake it!"

 

"Good, we'll try that after we take care of Dana's ankle. By the way, have you made this loaf in Warsaw?" Irene replied in the affirmative.

 

"I'll be back soon. I'll go to the nurse now." I ran off to see the nurse, while Irene and Dana munched on a chocolate bar.

 

Soon the nurse arrived, looked at the foot in the cast; then she took the child's temperature. It was 100 degrees. She declared, "The doctor will come tomorrow at 9:00 a.m. I will place your name down for an early appointment. Here are two aspirins to give the girl. Let her rest and stay off her foot. In the morning the doctor will see her." She left.

 

Meanwhile, June, smiling from her mission, returned with a large container of milk. "I had no problem. The nun, seeing the cigarettes, gave the milk willingly. She intimated that in a few days her nephew would be visiting her and that he would be pleased to get the cigarettes."

 

Dana drank some of the milk, leaving a bit for her sister.

 

Irene, looking out of the window, exclaimed, "Mom, this isn't a prison; why are the bars on the windows?"

 

"Oh, yes, it is something like a prison, but first allow me to answer your question. Darling, this place was a hospital, or should I say an asylum for mentally disturbed persons, before the war. In order to prevent the inmates from jumping from the windows, they put bars on them. Only a handful of inmates remained, the more capable ones, to take care of the premises. The others were removed. The iron bars remained."

 

"Oh, that's sad," said Irene with pity.

 

"Irene, Dana will rest now, maybe catch up on some sleep, and we'll go down for a walk before the evening meal. I'm so glad both of you are here with me now. I won't worry anymore about what you are doing in Warsaw. While we're strolling, you can tell me about your transport here and about Aunt Lillian, Grandma and your cousin, Lilliana."

 

We went down the polished stairway. Irene remarked, "Oh, Mom, how nice and clean it is here." Soon we were walking along the paths in the courtyard, meeting various women, English and American, some of the latter speaking only in Polish. Irene met a few of the English nuns on the walk. I was eager to learn about the girls' trip to the camp. I knew that mine was a nine-day ordeal. Now I wanted to hear how my children fared on their way from Warsaw, Poland. In order to be alone, I led Irene to a bench beside the castle and she explained the two-day trip without interruption.

 

"Mom, we left Warsaw at about 8:00 a.m. on Saturday in the company of two uniformed guards, who escorted us all the way to the camp. They brought us something to drink, when stopped at the railroad station. Aunt Lillian packed plenty of sandwiches and hard boiled eggs for our trip, so we were not hungry. The first night we spent traveling on the train. The following evening we reached Ulm, a town in southwest Germany, where we spent the night in the women's section of the Ulm prison."

 

"Did you hear any sounds, screams or moaning there during the night?"

 

"No, Mom, only when the heavy door clanged behind us, did we feel that we were in a strange place."

 

"Did you have something to sleep on?" I asked.

 

"Yes, we each had a cot. The following morning, we again boarded a train, which took us to Ravensbruck and from there we came by military truck to Liebenau."

 

"I saw that you both carried luggage."

 

"Oh, yes. Aunt Lillian filled it with warm clothing, dresses and a coat. She figured we would spend the winter in camp."

 

"Irene, dear, let's go back to our room and see how Dana is doing."

 

When we returned, we found Dana in great pain. Nothing, however, could be done. There was no emergency doctor on call. Dana took two aspirins and we waited until morning. Meanwhile, the poor child moaned all night long.

 

Early at 8:00 a.m. she hobbled down with me by her side to the nurse's room. There we waited for the doctor. At 9:00 a.m. he appeared, took one look at the leg and exclaimed, "We'll have to remove the cast and lance the ulcer." With the help of the nurse, he proceeded to take the cast off.

 

"Mrs. Niewiarowski, you will please leave the room, while we take care of your daughter," the nurse advised.

 

I left with hesitation. All at once, I heard my daughter scream; I covered my ears not to hear anymore and quickly left the premises.

 

Soon the nurse called me. "You can take Dana to her room. She'll be alright in a couple of days."

 

While she lay in bed, she longed for the time when she could eventually go out for short walk around the garden and, later, go mushroom picking. In the meantime, to make her days happy, the various internees visited her, bringing homemade candy with them.

 

For a time the arrival of the two girls brought a sense of newness to the camp. The internees now had an opportunity to find out from the girls how it was outside the enclosure. Irene told of the hardships in securing food.

 

Dana, when asked, replied, "Grandma and I had a little garden a few kilometers away. We traveled by bus to it and we worked it with care. Vegetables like lettuce, radishes and green onions grew abundantly, so we had a variety to choose from daily. For milk and meat we went to the countryside and bought as much as we could carry, since money was no problem. It was on one of these trips to the country for meat that I turned my ankle, shortly before the Nazis came to take us from Warsaw."

The two girls were liked by the women, especially by the English nuns. Willingly, they conversed with them on the walks. Dana had problems with the English language at the beginning. But Irene, under the tutelage of the gracious nuns, grew more proficient in the new language with each day.

 

Since many of the internees of Polish descent did not know the English language and prospects of transports to the U.S. were in sight, I proposed to have a class for beginners in English. The classes were well attended and many of the women took advantage of them. Many of the internees learned the new language well enough to be able to really use it.

Chapter 33

 

[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. Her husband, Edmund, became a prisoner of war. She and the children were allowed to live in the basement of the villa, but her mother successfully relocated in Warsaw. Radzia sought transport to America, but refused to leave without her children. Now she, as other American women, has been arrested and is in a camp in Germany. After two years in confinement, her daughters have now joined her in the camp.]

 

Late in the month of December, 1944, a rumor spread in the camp that a large transport to the United States would take place in January of 1945. Internees were advised to fill out applications for any U.S. citizens or relatives at home.

 

Mary, who did not know the German or English languages, hoped to get help in filling out applications for her family living near Krakow in Poland. Upon seeing me, her heart jumped for joy. Maybe Radzia would help. She approached me. Shyly, she began her plea.

 

"Radzia, would you help me in filling out petitions, please? I would like to being my mother, father, two sisters and a brother with me to America. I'd be so very happy if you would." She stopped, fearful of refusal.

 

"Of course, I'll do it. Do you have your applications with you?"

 

"Yes, here they are, " replied Mary with a timid smile, as she handed me the papers.

 

"How many forms have you here?"

 

"I hope filling out five won't be too much trouble for you."

 

"Well, no, not very much. Let's start at them right away. As I read, you give me the correct information about persons involved."

 

Mary willingly recited the names and addresses and in a half-hour five petitions were ready.

 

"Thank you, Radzia. I'm so glad you helped me; in no way would I be able to do it myself. Thank you again." And she dashed off to the C.O. with the petitions.

 

In no time I had six more internees asking me for help. The total number completed was thirty.

Pondering the internees' desire to bring their families together, it occurred to me that I should try to do it for my family. All the Commanding Officer could say was "nein." I could try and hope for the best. I did not think anything would come of it. Nevertheless, I could make an attempt. I hurried to the office of the C.O.

 

"Herr Kommandant! Would it be possible for me to bring my family here for the next transport--my mother, husband, two sisters, two brothers-in-law and one niece?" I waited for a reply, all tensed.

 

"I don't see why it would hurt you if you filed petitions for your family, but it's no use writing an application for your husband, since he is in a prison camp. The authorities there would under no circumstances release him. Here are six forms; fill them out and bring them to my office." My heart sank with disappointment. This could have been a happy reunion. Edmund would not be with us.

 

"Ich danke Ihnen, Herr Kommandant [Thank you, Commandant]," I said and left to work on my petitions. This was on a Thursday; I returned them all filled out that same day. I was not hopeful. However, I did for my family what I had done for my friends. Now I put this matter out of my mind and went about my work.

 

Ten days elapsed. Then, one of the internees came running up to my room puffing, out of breath.

 

"What's the matter, Kate? What's the hurry?" I asked her.

 

"Oh, you have guests downstairs," she excitedly exclaimed. I shrugged my shoulders and muttered, "Who cares."

Not knowing who would be coming to the camp, since no visitors were allowed, and not having been previously informed, I took my time to meet my guests. After all, they might be some strangers who asked for me. Maybe it was a joke on the part of the internees.

 

I sauntered leisurely down the highly polished staircase, thinking who it might be. There, at the foot of the stairs, stood two women, bundled up, and a teenager.

 

Suddenly I heard my name "Radzia" and at that very moment I recognized my sister Lillian's voice. Like a bullet, I sped down the rest of the stairs. I did not expect them, and here they were. Oh, how happy I felt. I grabbed my mother in my arms, hugged and kissed her over and over again. "Oh, Mother, I'm so glad to see you alive. After what you went through in Warsaw during the insurrection, I never believed I would ever see you again. I love you so."

 

Next I embraced my sister, Lillian, and her daughter, Lilliana, who stood close by, anxiously awaiting turns to be hugged and kissed.

 

"Mother, how did you make the trip?" I asked, recalling the many days I spent en route to here. "Lillian, where are your husband, Priscilla and Hilary? They were also on the same list."

 

Lillian replied in a disappointed tone, "Michael, Priscilla and Hilary were not in the village at the time the guards came, and could not be reached in time for the transport. That's why they're not here. What their fate will be, no one knows."

 

"All this is very discouraging and sad. I couldn't get Edmund out of the officers' camp, either. We'll be going to America without him. I feel terrible about this. I wonder if we ever will be together again."

 

Although we were saddened by the absence of our loved ones, it was a hearty reunion for the four of us. Four and a half years was a long time to be separated in such fearful times. I had not seen Lillian since August, 1939, when she moved to Warsaw.

 

In the meantime, my niece impatiently asked," Where are Irene and Dana? I'd like to surprise them."

 

"Oh, they're walking in the courtyard, probably with the English nuns."

 

Friends surrounded us and awaited with hope for news from the outside, which these three persons could impart. I shooed them away until later.

 

"Please go and find Irene and Dana, and tell them they have guests. My mother and sister are tired and need to rest." We then went up to my room.

 

The three of them were given quarters in the same dormitory as mine.

 

When we finally settled down after more embracing, Lillian, the sister who took care of my daughters in Warsaw from November, 1942, to June, 1944, declared with a laugh, "Why, Radzia, at first I did not recognize the roly-poly woman descending the stairs. How ell you look! My, you sure put on a lot of weight since I last saw you. They must feed you well here."

 

On the other hand, neither my mother nor my sister looked starved either, thanks to Warsaw's black market.

 

My questions followed. "How come you are here so quickly? I filled out many applications for the internees to get their relatives here, but so far no one arrived. Only ten days ago, I filed yours and here you are. It's amazing! I wonder why?"

 

My mother, not listening to my question, declared, "Lillian didn't want to come. Her husband was somewhere in the countryside and the Germans could not reach or find him in time for the transport. But, she ultimately decided and her we are."

 

It was already January 15, 1945. A cold winter; snow on the ground. Another rumor. A transport to America soon.

 

Oh, so that's why the shipments of people were arriving. Now, this time, I was willing to go to the United States. I had my two children, my mother, my sister and my niece. If only my husband had been with us.

 

The C.O. notified me that my sister and her daughter would not be in the transport. "First in order are children; next, husband; then parents. Sisters and others will not be accepted in the transport."

 

"Alright. Then the four of us will be going ... my mother, the two girls and me."

 

Over the weekend hundreds of prisoners from many camps poured in. Some were from extermination camps--emaciated, lame, sick, all for the big exchange transport of January, 1945--about 1,000 prisoners to go to the United States.

Chapter 34

 

[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 confiscated her mother's considerable real estate and bank accounts. Her husband, Edmund, became a prisoner of war. She and the children were allowed to live in the basement of the villa, but her mother successfully relocated in Warsaw. Radzia sought transport to America, but refused to leave without her children. Now she, as other American women, has been arrested and is in a camp in Germany. After two years in confinement, her daughters, mother, sister and niece have joined her in the camp, about to be exchanged for German prisoners of the Allies.]

 

On January 25, 1945, with the war still raging, 1,000 prisoners left the Liebenau camp by trucks to trains waiting on the rail siding at the railroad station.

 

It was a bitterly cold night, a biting wind blowing as the bright stars flickered in the inky blue sky. With each breath, gusts of steam escaped from our nostrils. Our hands and feet became numb, while waiting out turn to proceed to the trains.

Slowly we climbed into the coaches, but the sick and the feeble had to be hoisted onto the train. Those of us, who possessed suitcases, clutched them tightly, being sure we did not lose them in this important shuffle of people.

 

There was no need to hurry us; the cold weather did that. But, now, there was no pressure from the mighty Gestapo to speed us on ... no more prompting with the knee or the butt of the rifle. This was a priceless cargo to be exchanged.

 

Happy at the thought we were leaving Germany and our way to the land of freedom, we patiently waited for all the prisoners to be settled in the coaches. Eventually, the log train with its human cargo would its way slowly down the tracks over the snow-covered mountains.

 

Ultimately we arrived at the place in the mountains of Switzerland, which was to be our "way station" for two, long, cold, but happy, weeks. My mother, my children and I were never again separated.

 

The Swiss police, who took over the surveillance of the internees, herded us into a large, fenced-in camp with rows of long barracks; they had been used previously for other refugees. These barracks had a concrete floor and bunks, lower and upper, large enough for eight to ten people to lie side by side. We were allotted an upper bunk and reached it by climbing a make-shift ladder. Sour smelling straw filled the enclosure. Each person found a scratchy army blanket in the bunk for covering. There were no sheets and no pillows. Once up, my mother and I seldom left our spot, except for urgent reasons. We had difficulty getting out of our position, especially at night, since we had to crawl over sleeping persons to get to the ladder. The dim light was not enough to see in the darkness.

 

We could not discern or check the condition of our sleeping quarters upon arrival, as it was still night, but in the morning, with the faint light coming through the windows, I noticed the used and flattened straw upon which we spent our first night. Trying to fluff it up, I uncovered a woman's long hose and a pair of shoes left by the earlier inhabitants of this lodging.

Afraid of bugs and lice, I went to the head officers of the camp and asked him courteously, "Could we please have some fresh straw? Ours has been slept on and this morning I pulled out a woman's long hose and a pair of shoes."

 

This was too much for him. In an angry voice he answered, "Well, you Americans are not any better than the thousands of refugees we sheltered before you. We don't make any changes."

 

This was the first day of our stay in beautiful Switzerland. Hereafter, we slept in this dirty straw in our clothes. When it came to washing our hands and faces, we could not. We used the fresh snow that fell daily. Because the plumbing was outdoors, icicles hung from the spigots and, as they melted, more mounds of ice formed on the ground below the leaky faucets.

As for bathing, that was out of the question. But, even in winter time, people do start feeling uncomfortable and smelling offensive. We had to be ingenious with so many people around. The men were in different barracks, but it was still difficult to wash, stripped before strangers. We used our blankets from the bunks as a screen; at least two persons helped to hold one up. We uncovered the parts to be washed, rubbed some wet soap there and quickly, with icy water, wiped the lather away. This was a hurried operation; the cold being severe, the water icy and the privacy short. Happily, many of the women took the hint and started their ablutions soon after our innovation. After this quick, cold wash, we felt a trifle better and the air was a bit more pleasant.

 

The latrines were uniquely primitive for this highly civilized country of Switzerland. It was outdoor plumbing, on which one stood and heard a loud echo from far down below. The stench was nauseating.

 

There were not enough privy [toilet] stalls. The sick from the extermination camps had difficulty picking their way through the dirty snow and hard-caked ice mounds. Many a time, they slipped and fell, lying there until someone noticed them and helped them to the latrine, waited for them, and escorted them back to their barracks.

 

For two long weeks we withstood these unpleasant hardships. The incarceration in Liegeman for two and a half years was a hotel vacation compared to this deliverance in Switzerland.

 

The children somehow did not feel hemmed in by all this misery. They found other children their age and played on the hills in the clean, white snow, throwing snowballs and having a good time. They, as well as many of the refugees, enjoyed the magnificent scenery surrounding them ... the fresh, unpolluted mountain air.

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