Chapter 20

Somehow, the German authorities were still aware I still existed. It was the Spring of 1942. Hereafter, once a week I had to appear at the local police station for a statement. The inquisition began. "Why didn't you register as a U.S. citizen?"

"I didn't know I needed to. You always considered me a Polish citizen. I didn't see any reason why I should try to change your minds. Another thing ... I didn't see any notices warning U.S. citizens to report to the authorities about registering. I avoided coming in contact with the law."

He listened. After awhile, he dismissed me curtly.

Again the following week a summons arrived.

"Sit down, Mrs. Niewiarowski., we need some more information from you. Your full name?"

"Radzia J. Niewiarowski."

"Birthday and place of birth?"

"November 28, Chicago, Illinois, United States of America."

"Your family status?" continued the police officer.

"I have a husband, Edmund, who is an officers' camp in Grossborn, and two daughters, Irene, born in Torun, March 2, and Dana, born also in Torun, August 6." After she wrote all the statistics down, in a low crisp voice he dismissed me.

"May I go now?"

"Yes, you may," he answered without lifting his head.

Again the police called me. This time they wanted more data about my husband, Edmund. He wrote two letters a month and I cherished them. I brought them along with me. I approached the police officer and showed him the letters.

"Not so fast, wait till I ask for the letters."

I sat down on the bench, my letters in hand. This was the same officer who had questioned me last week. I thought he was friendly, so I dared to approach him. In the meantime he was sitting at his desk, thinking what to do. Ten minutes passed ... I was getting nervous and fidgety. I was restless; I knew I had to prepare lunch for my daughters. Here I was, needlessly sitting. (Yoga or any other form of meditation was not yet introduced in Germany or Poland.) I didn't know how to relax; I just got more tense and nervous.

He raised his head, looked at me with his piercing eyes and, in a severe voice, said, "What were those papers you threw on my desk?"

"They were my husband's letters from the Oflag [Officers' Camp]. I brought them to show you that he is not at home, but was taken prisoner early in the war."

"You can take them home."

I left satisfied that I got off with little trouble. By this time I thought the authorities had plenty of information about me, so I did not expect to be called anymore. I was mistaken. Again I was summoned. "What did they want me for this time?" I asked myself.

They had a new list of questions, the same as before and some different ones, such as, "where did you go for your groceries?"

"I walk to town and try one of the stores open to me, and buy what I can," I said.

I didn't tell him my friends advised me to lay away supplies, so if I ever ran out of some item, I would have something with which to barter. I did not have much luck, however. Usually I carried home small bags of various grains, our mainstay, besides syrup, potatoes and chicory coffee.

The officer suddenly asked me, "Why don't you apply for a Volksdeutsch [one who claimed or accepted German nationality] card?"

"I don't have the right to drop one citizenship for another."

"But there are many benefits from the German card," he smirked.

"Yes, I know."

"Dismissed," he scowled as he closed my file.

In a few days, again, a guard brought an order for me to see the officer immediately. I dropped what I was doing and accompanied him to the station. Here I waited approximately one hour. I sat and waited. No one else was in the room, so I could not find out what the German had in mind. Finally, the door opened. I was beckoned in.

"Mrs. Niewiarowski, we will have to go over your previous deposition, to see if it is correct."

Again, the same questions; the identical answers. Then he said, "Since you claim to be an American, as your deposition states, why didn't you register as a U.S. citizen at the beginning of the occupation?"

Caught unaware, I searched my mind for a good answer. I remembered that question was asked of me before. "I hadn't seen any notice warning U.S. citizens to register." I added, "I was under the impression the authorities knew about me and my family, that my husband was in the Oflag, and my children, one attending the local public school, and the other one working. So what was I to do?" I continued, "The authorities, when I asked for more and bigger rations because of my growing children, always refused to help me. I tried to do the best I could with what I had."

"Not enough! You should have applied for the Volksdeutsch card and life would be easier for all of you."

To this I gave no reply.

He gathered the papers, piled them into the folder. He motioned me to leave. I wondered how many more times I would be called.

Again a notice summoned me to the office headquarters. Now what happened? I've behaved normally on the streets of Torun, no more clandestine pounding on the wall, no more looking for extras in the line of foodstuffs; so what now?

Every such urgent summons distressed and frightened me. It took me away from my work, my unassuming surroundings; although very modest and humble, it was, nonetheless, still my home, where I could feel a certain degree of safety.

Every time the police arrived, my heart began to pound, my legs became rubbery and my voice trembled. Now hat else did they want from me? Did the Nazis find some crime they could pin on me? Had they hoped I would give a false reply and punish me for it?

It was June, 1942, a warm and sunny day. I was busy preparing lunch for my children. The summons was handed to me, the time set that same day. Again, the same questions of the whereabouts of my husband, my mother, the support of the children and, of course, my citizenship status. I answered truthfully. After I had told all, the officer placed the statement before me to sign. This was the first time I ever signed. I was surprised at this procedure. I just signed and shrugged my shoulders. What's going to happen now?

"You may go."

I left wondering what would come of all this. All the way home I worried and was bewildered at what would happen next.

When the girls came home for their predictable lunch of soup and bread, I related what had happened. They were concerned, likewise, but being young, they soon forgot, while day after day I lived in fear.

At last the air cleared. I received a court notice by registered mail to pay a fine of 84 German marks, the equivalent of $21.00, which I did not have, a fine for not registering as a U.S. citizen. A warning at the bottom of the notice informed me that the above amount could be worked off in a labor camp. Unfortunately, once confined in one of those camps, a person was never released from it.

Reluctantly, I decided to pay the fine. I knew how it was outside the camp, but only the Good Lord knew and saw the hardships of the prisoners inside. I was not going to put my head in the wringer willingly, not if I could do something about it.

My first thought was to notify my mother in Warsaw. I knew she would come to my help. I sent her a telegram asking her for 84 marks, and by wire I received a money order for the full amount. The next day I cashed it. I paid half my fine, informing the clerk that in fifteen days I would pay the balance. He agreed. I retained the 42.5 marks.

The days passed one by one, the children each doing their thing, and I went about bartering my possessions for eggs, butter, a chicken, or some beef, maybe a beef bone for some nourishing soup. It was summer; the weather was warm and pleasant. My little garden flourished under my tender care. This gave us a modest supply of fresh vegetables.

One day, however, in September, 1942, things radically changed. Guards came to my basement flat; one of them handed me a written order to appear at the main police station in town at 4:00 p.m. "Don't be late," he warned me. As I was pondering what this was for, I noticed that Irene was taking a shortcut across the grass, running home at full speed.

She stopped for breath and, in an excited voice, said, "Mother, I was stopped by neighbors. They said they saw two Nazi guards leaving our yard. What happened, Mother? What did they want?" She was very upset and nervous. "I'm thankful you're safe," she added. Still worrying about what she heard a short time ago on the street, she asked with anxiety, "What did the Nazis want from you, Mother?"

Dana, listening, said, "I wondered what upset you so much, Mom. You weren't your normal self."

Now it was my time to reply. Being puzzled myself, it was difficult to tell them, but I started floundering my way through. "I must appear at the police headquarters in town at 4:00 p.m. this afternoon. I don't know what for."

Both girls, upset at the bewildering news, came up and embraced me, while I shivered as if I had a cold coming on. Irene wanted to keep me company, Dana despaired, but I sent them on to their respective duties, assuring them that I would somehow calm down before the appointed time. They bade me goodbye and went off as told. Meanwhile, I brooded over what I could expect from the Nazi police.

I showed up at 4:00 p.m. sharp. They warned me to be on time. A guard ushered me into a little room. He told me to sit down and wait. I was getting restless waiting; it was already 5:00 p.m. and no one had appeared at the door. I tried making a noise with my heels, swinging my legs back and forth.

A sharp voice in the next room yelled, "Stille! [Quiet!]" That silenced me.

I got tired of sitting and began to pace the floor, my head full of foreboding. I finally gathered up enough courage to knock timidly on the door.

An orderly came out and muttered, "Sit down and wait."

"But it's already over an hour I'm waiting and I don't know what for."

"Just you wait," retorted the orderly.

It was 5:30 p.m., when I was summoned to an opening in the door. "Come here. What is your name?" Again the questions. "Where were you born? The date? Are you married?"

I answered the questions.

"Sit down and wait." They shut the window to the inner office.

I pondered the reasons for these questions they had asked me so many times.

It took only ten minutes for the guard to come toward me now with a card in his hand. He handed it to me saying, "You can go home now. This is your identification card with your picture on it." In it was written my U.S. citizenship and my Polish one. I looked at the card with disdain and stuck it in my pocket. "Don't lose it," he warned me.

Little did I know why it was so important to have this card in hand. I kept good care of it ... it is still in my possession today. With a troubled heart, I returned home to my daughters. The future looked bleak.

"Mother, we were so worried about you. You were away so long."

"I had to sit and wait for this card," showing it to them. "I must not lose it, they warned me ... I'm glad you started cooking the soup. I'll take over now."

It was barley soup with chunks of potatoes floating around. The supper ended with a slice of dark bread and the red beet jam. I cleaned up after our meager meal. Now we began the evening routine of putting up the heavy army blankets over the windows for the nightly blackout. After this work was done and the windows checked for any glimmer of light that might escape from the basement, we each reported the day's happenings.

All three of us were disturbed about my newly-issued I.D. card. Why was that so important today? Although Poland was under Nazi rule since 1939, it was now three years later that I received my card.

"Well, they must have a very good reason for the sudden urgency," I said with a sigh.

Irene questioned the reason, asking, "Mom, why do you think it was so necessary for you to have it?"

Dana wondered, "What will happen if you lose it, Mom?"

That was a good question. I, not knowing the real reason either, replied glumly, "I had better not lose it."

This ended our quiz session. Dana turned to studying her German lesson, while Irene lay on the couch to rest. She had a hard day at work delivering over-sized bundles to the German patrons of her merchant employer. Tomorrow would not be any easier.

At 9:00 p.m. we got ready for bed. Dana, being the youngest, had first chance in the kitchen where we washed over a sink; next came Irene. In the meantime, Dana got into bed with her book to continue studying her lesson by the light at the head of the bed. Irene was next and, after checking the kitchen door, I lay down beside them. We read until we fell asleep.