SERIALS

 

RADZIA, AMERICAN PRISONER

IN NAZI-OCCUPIED POLAND

 

by Radzia Niewiarowski

 

Distributed by the Polonia Media Network

 

Polonia Today introduced the uncut serialized version of a fascinating true story. It was written by Radzia Niewiarowski, now deceased, as a remembrance gift to her family and was printed with her kind permission. Reproduction elsewhere without the written permission of the author's estate or the Polonia Media Network is a violation of copyright laws.

 

FOREWORD

 

World War I was raging. President Woodrow Wilson had his Fourteen Points of the League of Nations ready.

 

When the war ended, the Allies signed the Treaty of Versailles in 1919, which included the League of Nations document. One of the points of the Fourteen was the restoration of Poland with access to the sea.

 

Poland's history dates back to the Piast dynasty in 960 A.D. Its territory extended from the Baltic Sea north and the Black Sea to the south.

 

It disappeared from the map of Europe in 1795 after three partitions in 1771, 1792 and 1795 by Germany, Austria-Hungary and Russia.

 

The independence of Poland was proclaimed on November 9, 1918, two days before the Armistice. Poland rose from the ashes and became a free country.

 

Now here was a chance to rebuild Poland. My father, a zealous patriot, decided to help.

 

In the summer of 1919, mother left to visit her aged parents in Poland. She returned by Christmas and was very positive about living and raising her family there.

 

Father, hearing all these stories, planned to see for himself. His patriotism would not allow him to miss the opportunity to help Poland in his little way.

 

Meanwhile I was in my fourth year at the University of Chicago, expecting to receive my degree in March, 1921.

 

WHY GO TO POLAND?

 

March 25, 1921, was a date to remember for me. At the age of 22 I was in a cap and gown awaiting my degree at the University of Chicago; a certificate to teach in high schools arrived later. I looked forward to have a long five months of vacation.

 

Alas, my vacation was cut short to one week. Why? A principal of a suburban public grade school needed a replacement to fill. I was available. I decided to take this opportunity to start my teaching career; therefore I agreed to take the position.

 

The following Sunday I moved to a nearby town. I didn't need to look for lodging because one of the district school board members offered me room and board.

 

It was a very nice family. The head of the household was the doctor of the town. His wife was an excellent hostess and cook. She served delicious food and I was very happy there. I really enjoyed my three months living in the country.

 

In the meantime offers from various high schools kept coming to my home and I had a difficult time making a good choice.

 

Then one weekend, when I went to visit my family, my father spoke to me about a trip to Europe. Yes, he mentioned Poland.

 

"Poland?" I asked with surprise. "Why to Poland?"

 

"I am planning to go to Poland and I would like you to come along. We would sail to Amsterdam, then board a small boat to Gdansk [called Danzig at the time]."

 

"Oh, Gdansk, Dad! I am planning to teach in high school somewhere and now you're mixing up my plans."

 

"Well, dear, if you don't like it in Poland, you can always return to Chicago."

 

"Good, I like that!" Then Dad gave me a warm hug.

 

Dad made all the arrangements and we sailed on August 26, 1921, from New York on the Frederick the Great to Amsterdam and from there we took a small boat to Gdansk.

 

We had no problems at the railroad station or with the customs. As the train chugged along, I stood at the window looking a the beautiful landscape and fields of golden brown filled with wheat, rye and barley which were ready for harvesting. As we passed small railroad stations, I noticed laundry hanging out to dry in the sun and children watching a cow grazing. The laundry was not as white at it could be because of a shortage of soap and washing powder.

 

So far, I wasn't convinced to stay, but "Give it a try, Radzia," I said to myself. "Torun may be different." Torun was our destination. As we approached Torun, my father tried to explain what we were about to see.

 

"You don't know Poland or any of the customs, so I will try to explain what you will see on the way. We still have some distance to go. As we leave the train station in Torun, there will be some old, dilapidated horse and buggies waiting outside the station." Sure enough, there was only one left, an old scrawny nag with an old age driver sitting in the rickety buggy. My father hailed the driver, who gave me look from under his tired eyelids and helped with the luggage. We sat in the run-down rig and we were off. My father continued to tell me what I was to expect at the end of a bridge one kilometer [about 5/8 of a mile] we were going to cross. The Vistula [Wisla] River we were to cross was wide and full of currents.

 

"We will have a long way to go after we cross the bridge. At the end of our ride on the bridge, there will be a man sitting, a toll tax collector for the bridge. It is very curious, but the old guy doesn't collect a toll from all who pass. No, he is allowed to kiss the pretty girls in the cabs. That is the custom here! Only the older women need pay the toll."

 

"Well, Dad, I don't like that one bit! Why must I kiss a very old and dirty man for a ride? You, Dad, can give him a good tip and he'd be satisfied."

 

"Well, I don't know, but I will try. You, in the meantime, can pretend you're sound asleep because of your long trip."

 

"That's true. I will try. But, why would he want to kiss me, a foreigner?"

 

"Well, I don't know," my father remarked, "but that's the custom in this town. I found that out as we were leaving the station."

Soon we were on our way to the bridge. The old driver began to tell us stories of the war and why the bridge was not bombed. He told us the same story that my father told me about the toll for the use of the bridge and about the old toll collector at the end of the bridge. "Lucky is the girl who finds the old 'geezer' asleep. I wouldn't want to kiss the old fellow either," he said and grinned.

 

My father wasn't a bit surprised because he had heard this story before.

 

When I overheard this tale, I thought to myself, "I hope I will make a good showing of a sleeping princess.

 

As the old nag went clippety-clop on the bridge, a pretty long one at that, I tried to fall asleep. "How far, Dad, before we reach the toll collector?"

 

"Oh, it is still a long distance to the end, declared Dad with a smile. "For all we know he may be sound asleep and we will avoid paying the toll."

 

"I hope so," I sighed. We were soon over the lone structure. "Oh, Dad, I didn't have to kiss the old man. I'm so glad!"

 

"Yes," my father said with a smile. I then gave my father a big hug and a squeeze. Later I learned that it was Dad's joke on me.

 

[Author's Note: Happily, I remained in Poland from 1921 to 1939, including my 1925 marriage to my beloved husband, a Polish Army Captain. In spite of my American passport, the Nazi occupation ruined our marriage, sent him to an officers' camp for five-and-a-half years, and we never saw him again.

 

My two little girls and I lived two-and-a-half years of near starvation, crowded with another family in the cold basement of our beautiful villa. The girls and I were separated and I was sent to Camp Liebenau in southwestern Germany.]

 

MY PARENTS

 

My father, Stanley, who was born in 1862 in Russian Poland, was conscripted into the Russian where he served his six years. Returning home, he decided that he had enough Russia and would try his luck in America, the land of freedom and plenty.

 

Now, how to get to America was another problem. Upon returning from the army, his father had given him an antique gold watch with three protective covers, which he placed in his vest pocket. Happy father and son!

 

Stanley's brother was taken to Siberia for his anti-tsarist activities. Stanley's father was glad that his son Stanley made the right decision to go to America and would not be sent to Siberia as his older son was.

 

Stanley said farewell to his parents and reached Hamburg. He didn't waste any time, but went looking for the Hamburg Ocean Line office. He had little money, but he carried his father's gift in his vest pocket. The shipping clerk agreed to sell him a place on a steamer with the agreement that Stanley would get the watch back, when he'd sent the money to the Hamburg ticket office. The watch was the security. It wasn't long before Stanley received his gold watch and proudly replaced it in his vest pocket.

 

He kept on working in Connecticut, when he heard that there were plenty of jobs in Chicago. The 400th anniversary of the discovery of America by Columbus was going to be celebrated, and there was a need for many workers. Stanley didn't take long to decide and in Chicago he had a good job as a painter.

 

He was a thrifty young man, not a drinker and he saved his wages for the time he would need it.

 

My mother, born in German Poland, was not a happy child. She was the second girl of a large family of nine children. She was not a contented girl. Being the second daughter, she always wore the hand-me-down clothes, especially dresses; never did she receive a new frock and that made her very unhappy.

 

She found out from her mother that there was an Aunt Kate living in Chicago. Bronia, my mother, wrote to Aunt Kate and told her the troubles and disappointments she experienced at home.

 

Aunt Kate sent her the ticket for the ocean passage and some money to pay for the railroad ticket to Chicago. Was she happy!

It was some time before Stanley and Bronia met at a party in Aunt Kate's home. Six weeks later, the wedding date was set. Bronia had a brand new, lovely, long dress with a train and she beamed with delight.

 

The couple worked hard. Stanley had invested his savings in a hardware and paint store. Six children were born to them and I was the second, just like Bronia in her family.

 

My father had many customers who came to him for advice, which he gave willingly. He made many friends and was considered a patriot from Poland. This made him very popular. He belonged to Polish organizations and by 1914 he was already the chairman of many meetings. He spoke of their need to help Poland, although there was no Poland at that time. It belonged to Russia, Germany and Austria. In 1918, however, Poland was restored and put on the map of Europe.

 

The scene has now been set and we have met some of the principal characters.  The tale actually begins as Chapter 1 unfolds.

CHAPTER 1

 

Droning sounds of German Stukas awakened the slumbering population of Torun early September 1, 1939. They crossed the western boundary of Poland and released their deadly bombs on the airports throughout the country, immobilizing the Polish Air Force, as well as killing many civilians.

 

This sneak attack by the German fliers destroyed the Polish Air defense. The lack of it made easy for the Germans to gain control of Poland in so short a time--27 days.

 

Torun was my home town. It was the county seat that contained two officer training schools, the city and county governments. The population of the town in 1939 was 85,000.

 

It was not just any hamlet. Torun had an old historical background. Founded in the early 13th century at the crossing with the Vistula [Wisla] River, this medieval town flourished. By the 14th century Turn was a powerful member of the Hanseatic League--an important link in the trade of Poland with the countries of Western Europe. At that time the population numbered from 10 to 12,000.

 

Torun was also the birthplace of Nicholas Copernicus [Mikolaj Kopernik], who played along the narrow medieval streets and, as a youth, walked among the marvelous Gothic structures. This was his home until he moved to Krakow to enter the university.

 

Now in the 1930s business flourished here as everywhere in Poland. Shops of all kinds thrived. Merchants with great pride exhibited wares in their rich window displays, while the butchers and grocers effectively arranged their stock to catch the eye of the passersby. Various smoked hams alongside thickly sliced cold cuts of sausage lay on pretty platters while large slabs of beef, veal, pork and lamb hung on steel hooks in storage. The grocers were not to be outdone by the butchers. They built high pyramids of fresh fruit and displayed various cheeses to enhance the eye.

 

Torun abounded in many first-rate coffee shops, where the middle class sipped aromatic coffee and nibbled on delicious French pastry.

 

Here in this unusual town--part medieval, part modern--about two kilometers [ca. 1-1/4 miles] away lived my family: my 78-year-old father-in-law, a guest; my 85-year-old Aunt Julia; my two daughters, Irene, 12, and Dana, 8; Maria, my helper; my husband, Edmund; and I.

 

We lived in a spacious two-story villa with a big cemented basement on a four-acre plot of ground. These four acres were a peaceful haven from the hubbub of the busy town not so far away. Our home, a white stuccoed building, was set back about 100 feet from the road. A six-foot-high, white fence with two-inch pickets spaced two inches apart, built on a two-foot-high cement base, separated us from the passing world.

 

Along the tall front fence blossomed a profusion of lilacs in various shades of purple, pink and white. In springtime the fragrance of the sweet-smelling blooms was overwhelming. Once inside this estate, the well-kept green lawn spread along both sides of the freshly raked graveled walk to the building. Long rows of smiling pansies dancing in the breeze greeted the visitor on each side of the walk.

 

To the left of the villa there was a formal garden with its low hedges of shiny myrtle forming a border for the many kinds of rose bushes displayed. Here among the various plants, my husband spent his free time from duty as a career officer. Sitting on a low stool, equipped with a sharp knife, raffia straw and rose eyelets, he patiently cut away at the rose, grafting it. Edmund, as time went on, became a skillful gardener. He enjoyed the work. It relaxed him. He had pleasure doing it. For all of us it was an ideal and happy life.

 

At the time of the bombing, my husband was not at home. He was on duty at Army headquarters.

 

Although the airport was only six kilometers [ca. 3-3/4 miles], being sound sleepers, we did not hear the explosions as the planes blew up.

 

Hitler demanded that Poland agree to his annexation of the Free City of Danzig [Gdansk] and give him a free strip of land across the Polish Corridor to connect East Prussia with Germany. The Poles refused. Hitler decided to take the country by force.

 

Meanwhile, the area newspaper ceased publication. Sabotage took place at the printing plant. One of the workers, supposedly a Pole, but now a turncoat, dismantled an essential portion of the press, thereby stopping the printing of the news. That same afternoon the German police entered the shop and arrested the editor. That was the end of the free Polish press in Torun.

 

Now news came by word of mouth. People huddled close to the radio for news of the day. Strains of soft melodious music of Chopin now filled the air, interrupted only for the news Warsaw imparted to her people about her allies. Questions like, "Will France and England, our allies, come to our rescue and when?" kept us in a state of great suspense. Meanwhile, Polish Radio called for mobilization of the army, ordering all men to age 45 to report for general mobilization.

 

When, unexpectedly, my husband came home for lunch, I asked him, "What's going on that you don't keep regular hours?"

With sadness he uttered, "I'll be coming home less often now. There's something brewing in the air ... a war" Impulsively he took me in his arms, embraced me tenderly, kissed me affectionately and said, "Take good care of our girls." My handsome, dashing husband left.

 

I was sad and worried. I wished the war would hurry and start, just to get it over with. Polish authorities had assured us we were well-prepared for all eventualities. Supposedly, over our capitol a huge screen was stretched to prevent any damage by bombs. What nonsense! And yet, we believed it.

 

The General Chief of Staff, when addressing the soldiers a few days before the war, said, "We will not give up one button to the enemy." The army cheered and cheered. September 1st came and the defense of Poland collapsed.

 

The civilian population now resorted to the radios for word of help from our great allies. None came. At first, as waves of planes approached and passed over our home, we thought they were ours and waved to them.

 

Mother, concerned about our welfare, came to see how we fared, now that the enemy planes were regularly flying over our town.

 

The children, Grandpa, Mother and I sat spellbound by the radio, listening for any good news. We sat gripped with fear.

 

It was 3:00 p.m. when the milkman arrived with our daily supply of dairy products. This afternoon, as soon as he entered the kitchen, he shouted at the top of his voice, "They're the Germans! Go under cover or to the basement."

 

Hearing this warning in the dining room, Mother, the children and I hurried for protection from the bombs. Shaky with fright and scared, we were now panicky. On our way to the shelter, we were immobilized. A deafening noise cut through the air.

 

We stood riveted to the floor. We could not make our way to the basement. We remained in the kitchen, Mother shielding sobbing Irene, and I, terror-stricken, Dana, with our arms and bodies. We, also, were frightened. Soon it was all over, except for the huge amounts of cement dust still in the air. Thank God, we were safe. The planes scurried away. Our villa walls, the thickness of two bricks, withstood the sudden destructive blasts.

 

It was now quiet. We shook the dust from our hair and garments, then went outside to see what had happened to cause the dreadful noise, with all the mortar spreading in the rooms.

 

Four bombs fell near the house, one in the garden, 50 feet away, one in the street to the right of our home, and two hit a newly constructed four-story building 100 feet to our left; it was totally demolished.

 

We heard cries and screams of the members of families left alive. We didn't investigate; we panicked. Another wave of enemy planes followed, but this time they flew to another target. Where shortly before people lived and enjoyed life, now a great heap of rubble, bricks and broken boards lay. It was hard to believe that all the occupants, mostly helpless women and children, were buried under the debris! Eleven persons were killed by this merciless bombing.

 

On the first day of September, I had resolved that no matter what happened, I would remain in my home. But with the bombing so close by, I changed my mind. I wanted out and away immediately, if possible, with the army. That, according to my thinking, was the safest way out. It was, however, not the best solution.

 

Many persons had the same idea, of leaving everything and following the army. This exodus of the citizenry impeded the movements of the army, thus giving the German planes easy targets to bomb and harass by descending low enough to cause havoc all around, not discounting the mental anguish suffered by the retreating Polish Army.

CHAPTER 3

 

[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. After the Germans invade Poland in 1939, Radzia flees her comfortable villa in Torun and joins the thousands of refugees. The army defeated, her husband, Edmund, is in an officer's camp.]

 

We endured a very bumpy ride over dusty country roads for many kilometers. Finally, with dusk approaching, we stopped to rest in a small village some 60 kilometers [ca. 37 miles] away from home. Here we found an available large barn where the farmer stored his grain. We called this home for also the next five weeks.

 

The farmer and his wife, appreciative of our predicament, offered us food and shelter.

 

The wife quickly brought us warm milk, freshly baked bread and delicious, newly-churned butter. She included dishes. Then she motioned to the children, "Come get some pillows to sleep on."

 

We were thirsty, hungry and tired. We drank the milk and relished the bread, smearing it with delectable butter.

 

With the break of day we definitely planned to move on.

 

Meantime, my mother decided we had no business trailing along with the army. She made her choice. "I'm not moving from here. If I have to die, let me die here. I'm not running from the enemy." And here all of us remained. I did not like the idea, but I was helpless.

 

We slept on fresh straw on the ground, changed as often as we could get a new supply. The farmer was generous with it.

 

I spent the day looking for food, paying for it with money my mother carried in her money belt. The farmer let us have a primitive oil stove, a gadget never seen by us before. Since we did not know how to operate it, we struggled with it until we finally achieved a flame. It cooked our simple meals. Our nourishment consisted mostly of plain vegetables, baked potatoes with thick sour cream, milk and wholesome whole wheat bread brought by the farmer's wife. It was baked in long coke ovens. We enjoyed the daily supply of fresh cottage cheese. Everything was delicious, tasty and plentiful. No one complained of hunger.

 

Once, when foraging for food, I bought a fifteen pound live goose. It provided us with a banquet for days. Best of all, we enjoyed the black goose soup Mother prepared with the blood of the goose, which she so scrupulously saved when she killed the bird. Next, she rendered the fat from the goose with minced onions and diced apples, making an appetizing spread for the fresh country bread. I ate it with a voracious appetite. Today I wonder how I could have enjoyed it so much.

 

Our "goose luck," however, did not repeat itself. The Germans quickly scoured the poultry situation in the area and promptly confiscated all except for the few the farmer killed secretly in the night.

 

Sometimes, en route to the village store, crossing the fields by way of the row of tall poplar trees, I heard the din of airplanes overhead. A salvo of shots would follow. I dropped to the ground simulating injury and waited for the planes to disappear. I hurriedly returned to my family empty-handed, frightened and shaking, but in one piece.

 

When the Nazis finally achieved their plan of subjugating the Polish State, posted bulletins on billboards ordered the people to return to their towns.

 

I was fearful of the consequences, as I did not possess an identification card. I hid my Polish I.D. in the straw in the village barn. On leaving I forgot to look for it. Who knows if it would still be there. I might have thrown it out with the used straw.

Now, however, my mother refused to remain. "I'll take my chances with the Germans." she was firm.

 

It was October already. The cold barn was not an ideal place to spend the long, cold winter.

 

We packed what little we had and started in the direction of the railroad station.

CHAPTER 4

 

[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. After the Germans invade Poland in September, 1939, Radzia flees her comfortable villa in Torun and stays in the countryside for over a month. Now, however, all refugees are ordered to return to their hometowns. Her husband, Edmund, is a prisoner of war.]

 

Rows of freight trains stood with names of towns scribbled in white chalk; we soon found the one headed in the general direction of Torun.

 

With the helping hand of others, we climbed into the freight car. Finding a vacant spot in the already crowded train was a problem. I heard Dana complain. "There are no seats here. And I'm hungry. I did not drink my milk and we forgot to get some bread from the farmer."

 

"Maybe we'll be home in a couple of hours, so we'll get some good food there." I tried to placate her.

 

"I hope so," she signed under her breath.

 

Alas, what would have taken a couple of hours, in normal times, now required eighteen. Many times the train just stood on the tracks on a siding.

 

No provisions for washing or restroom facilities existed. While the train stood idle, people jumped out to take care of their needs in the tall bushes alongside the rails.

 

Eventually the long freight trains with their hundreds of evacuees came to life; and soon we heard the name "Thorn," a new name for our beloved Torun.

 

"What's that?" questioned Irene. Dismay showed on all our faces. The Germans changed Torun to Thorn. Our beautiful Torun now had a German name. It was a sad day for us.

 

We were happy to leave the train. As we jumped, each held her little bundle, hoping to bring it safely home. But home was still four kilometers (ca. 2.5 miles) away.

 

"Mother, do you think we can get a taxi home?" Irene asked in a confidential whisper. "I'm tired and hungry, Mother."

 

"No, my dear. There are no taxis or horse buggies, or wagons to take us anywhere, as you can see. We'll have to walk." Then I added, reassuringly with a smile, "Think of all the comforts at home ... a nice warm bath, clean clothes and some good food. Maria will have something in the pantry for us."

 

A townsman standing by responded to a question of mine. "No, the bridges are intact. You can walk over the bridge. Part of it was hit by a bomb early in September, but you can make your way. It's been repaired already."

 

"Good. Thank you. But what about the rest of the town?"

 

"Oh, our town is still standing. You know, after the September bombing, no more explosions took place."

 

"That's fine. Then we'll have someplace to sleep tonight," I replied cheerfully to him.

 

As we proceeded on our way, I asked myself: Why should the Germans destroy the "Pearl of the Corridor," when Torun was destined for greater things by them?

 

Our feet aching, our legs stiff from lack of exercise, and our stomachs empty and growling, we slowly inched our way across the long, low bridge over the Vistula River [Wisla] to the suburb of our town.

 

"Mother, my feet ache, and this bundle of stuff I'm carrying weighs a ton. Do I still have to bear with it? Can't Irene help?" Dana was despondent and tired.

 

"Dana, darling, we'll be home soon. You seen that Irene has a bigger packet than you. Be patient and we'll be home in a short time."

 

As we continued on our way, Irene interjected, "I wonder how Grandpa and Aunt Julia are, and Maria."

 

"I wonder, too," I mused. "It's been a long time away from home. I also wonder if any news from Dad will be awaiting us."

 

"Mother, the last time we saw Dad was September 3rd and today is October 8. I saw a calendar in the railroad station. I hope he recovered from his despondency and is doing well, wherever he is," sighed Irene.

 

"I hope so, too," added Grandma, carrying her bundle in silence, sighing from time to time.

 

Chatting to pass the time, we soon edged our weary way past the cemetery. Now we knew we would be home shortly. Just a little way ... a long street, a left turn, again a five minute walk, and we would be back.

 

There in all its beauty stood our home, untouched by the bombs. "Our home, sweet home!" We feared for it through the five-week ordeal. Would the Nazis bomb our home? Would we again see it intact? And here it was--just as we left it, except for the autumnal appearance of the trees and the withered long-stemmed roses in the side garden. Now we would be safe from everything; the war was over for Poland and probably for us who returned. This was home. The entrance to the villa held a special appeal to us.

 

Dana touched the handle of the gate of the tall, white, wooden fence. It squeaked. She threw her packet on the ground and ran to the house, nervously raised the knocker and waited impatiently.

 

Finally, our 85-year-old aunt shuffled to the door. With an outburst of joy, Dana passionately embraced Aunt Julia. Tears soon wet their faces. "Oh Auntie, how are you, and how are Grandpa and Maria? Any news from Dad?"

 

In the meantime, Mother, Irene and I slowly made our way into the house, Auntie helping us as much as she could, but impeding our entrance.

 

Shortly, Grandpa came to greet us. "Oh, you have no idea what we passed through. The Germans confiscated all the property, collecting the rent from the buildings. They came harassing us every day, inquiring when you'd return. They took our radio, telling us we wouldn't need it anymore. It was the only link to the outside world!"

 

Tired as we were, we stood and listened to Grandpa. "They wanted Edmund's guns ... all of them. They had information from his hunting club. But I didn't give them to the Germans. You what I did?" He looked slyly at us.

 

"No, Grandpa, I can't imagine how you disposed of them," I said with doubt in my voice.

 

"As soon as they left, I took the double-barrel gun and Edmund's revolvers, wrapped them in heavy brown paper, tied them with a thick cord, carried them to the deep well at the side of the garden and dropped them into the water. I was relieved.

 

The Germans won't get any use from them and they'll never find them," he said with a cunning grin. He was proud of himself.

"Good for you, Grandpa. Glad that's taken care of. Now what did you do with all the gunpowder, BB's and shells that Edmund had?"

 

"Nothing."

 

"Nothing! Well, they'll search and, if they find any, we'll all be in lots of trouble. Coming through town we saw notices plastered on walls on every street warning people to give up all guns and ammunition to German authorities."

 

Grandpa had an answer. "In fact, I don't know where my son hid them. I could testify that way, if they ever do find them."

 

"Well, I know where they are, and I know a good place for the ammunition."

 

At this moment Maria came dashing in. She was in the garden picking tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, in preparation for their dinner. She threw what she held in her hands on the table. Her embrace was warm and sincere. "I thought I would never see you again, Ma'am. Oh! I'm so glad you, your mother and the children are safe and home at last. Do you have any news of the Captain? We haven't heard anything." She stopped.

 

My heart sank. "No news, Maria? We were expecting to find some news here from him. But I'll tell you all about it later."

This gave me a moment to organize my thoughts; first, a shower, then a nice warm dinner with soup and maybe meat patties.

Maria left the kitchen.

 

Aunt Julia, a big hoarder all her life, getting prepared for that "rainy day," came from her little room. She carried something brown, looking like a thick, heavy rope ... it was sausage. It resembled the good old-fashioned thick salami, but it was covered with a greenish-gray mold.

 

"This is alright," said Auntie. "I'll just remove the casing and wipe it clean. I'll cut it in thin slices, and you'll be glad you have it. We can't get meat anymore, so I saved it for the day you returned. I hoped you would come soon, because I wanted some a few days ago."

 

This was the aunt who made the best crepes [nalesniki] in the world. They were thin, crisp and fragrant. She folded them into the shape of small handkerchiefs, first filling them with sweetened cottage cheese, then a sprinkle of powdered sugar.

Irene called to Auntie. "How about making some crepes, dear Auntie? You know we liked them before this awful war began."

 

"Yes, I know, but I don't have eggs or milk. Only some flour and you can't make good crepes out of water and flour." She quickly shuffled to the kitchen.

 

How different from our life in the country the last five weeks. We practically lived on milks, eggs, and good, fresh cottage cheese. I felt guilty.

 

Meantime, Dana placed her order. "How about some ham sandwiches with pickle on rye bread?"

 

Maria, who was listening to all this, suggested, "I could cook some cereal for you and you can add the sugar. But as for ham and butter, we haven't seen any since the beginning of the war." Her face was sad as she continued to wring her hands.

 

"Girls, do go up and take your showers and slip into your nighties. Be comfortable, while Grandpa and I go into the larder to see what's on hand for dinner."

 

Maria intercepted us with bad news. "We've had no meat since the Germans came. Lucky for us if we could find some milk and white bread."

 

I listened. What will we eat? After all, we did not starve the five weeks away from home, so why worry now? I asked, "What were you preparing for the three of you?"

 

"I was going to prepare a green salad, boil some potatoes for our curdled milk. That would be our supper. For dessert, fresh fruit from our trees."

 

"That sounds pretty good to me. We'll have that also."

 

After a hearty dinner the girls left for bed, glad to be home at last.

 

My thoughts turned to other comforts. I hoped there would be enough pillows, sheets and blankets to keep us warm.

GO TO RADZIA - PART 5

 

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