Chapter 11

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

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

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

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

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

"Where to?" This shock made me numb.

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

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

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