Chapter 15

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.