Chapter 21

It was the night of September 15, 1942. Warm and dark inside, we were sound asleep. Suddenly--a sharp knock. Again and again. What's that? Is it a mistake? Who could be coming at this time of night? It was still curfew. Again, louder knocking, and now I could hear the butt of a rifle against the door.

"Mother, get up, please, and see who it is. They'll break down the door, if you don't go."

"But who can it be?" I asked.

"You'll see when you open the door," replied Irene.

In my long nightgown, frightened, I stumbled to the door. I unlatched it, turned the key and cautiously opened the door a crack; but one of the guards kicked the door wide open and two well-fed guards walked into the dimly-lit kitchen.

"Are you Mrs. Niewiarowski?" asked the leader in a low-pitch voice.

I trembled when he called my name. "Yes," I responded slowly, my teeth chattering. Immediately it dawned on me that this was the reason for yesterday's trip to the police. It was only a prelude of what was to happen. They gave me the I.D. card in order to give them, the Nazis, grounds for their plan. My stomach knotted.

In the meantime the girls got up from bed and listened to the loud conversation in the kitchen. They were frightened, the poor darlings, and so was I.

"Where is your I.D. card? ... Let me see it," said the other guard, already standing in the kitchen. I went to my coat pocket and surrendered the card. He checked the picture on it.

I hoped they would soon leave.

One of them said, "Get dressed. You're going with us."

I anxiously glanced at my two children who were now standing close by. "Where to ... and my children also?" At that time Irene was 15 years old and Dana was 11.

"No, only you."

"What's going to happen to them?" I asked nervously, eyes full of tears. I was so afraid for them, my darlings.

"Don't take all night; get some clothes on. We haven't all morning to spend here."

But for the flashlight and the dim night light, it was dark in the room. I walked to the switch, flipped it on. I tried dressing in front of these two men. Over my nightgown, I put on slip, skirt and blouse. I looked around for a sweater; one of the girls found it and handed it to me. I couldn't see for the tears.

"Mommie, don't cry. You'll be alright, and we'll manage somehow here," Dana quieted me.

"Don't forget your shoes and stockings. You'll need them; it's chilly outside," prompted the guard nervously, for I was taking to long.

"I'm ready." I put my arms around my two darlings and, with all that was in me, hugged and kissed them. As I bent over them, I whispered in Polish for one to follow me at a distance and the other one to go to Kristi's house, my American friend.

The guards led me out, one on each side of me.

Curfew had ended; dawn was breaking. Men and women hurried to work. Noticing the guards, they glanced at me and went silently on their way. It was chilly and I regretted I hadn't taken a warm coat along.

We three walked without a word; I wondered where they were taking me. What was the reason I was separated from my children? A ten- minute walk ended. Then I climbed stairs, straight up to the second floor. My heart pounded from the exertion and nervousness.

One of the guards opened the door and ordered, "Get inside and sit down."

A long, wide bench stood alongside the gray wall. The room was empty, except for a desk and a small chair near the window. I sat down on the bench. The door slammed; the guards stayed outside the door. Now what, I asked myself? I remembered to take my I.D. card. I checked to see if I still had it. Now I realized I was on my way to a camp. To which one? Where to? What for? These and other questions came popping into my mind. And what about my children?

I had no way of getting in touch with my daughters. If only my children did as I bade them, one to follow me, the other to see if Kristi was home, then they would know what was happening.

I was getting hungry; my stomach was growling. Suddenly, I needed to use the toilet. I knocked on the door.

The guard asked, in a stern voice, "What do you want?"

I told him my need.

He led me to a small, smelly cubicle used by prisoners. He stayed outside the door.

I returned to my place on the bench. No one had entered the room yet.

Finally, a German officer stepped into the office. "Stand up," the guard commanded. The officer sat down, took some papers out of his desk and began asking my name, age, address and citizenship status. He scrupulously wrote all the information down in his notes and ordered me to sit down. He left.

I waited a long time. The morning sun became bright.

Eventually there was movement outside the door; the door handle jumped suddenly and in stepped two guards/ "Come along with us," they ordered.

Where to, I wondered? I left my bench and followed them down the stairs. Fresh air, the trees along the streets, people walking, some working in their gardens, children skipping beside their mother ... all this made me wonder why I was being marched like a criminal between two sullen guards. Why me? I tried to keep up with their long strides, but just couldn't.

They would not slow up for me, either. It was a hop and a skip all the way to town, a distance of some two kilometers [more than a mile], before they slackened their step in front of a ten-foot tall, gray, massive brick wall, behind which loomed a red, round, lofty tower. The windows were all boarded ... this was the city jail. So here I was going to stay, the same place I visited my cousin Ed, two years ago. The guard pulled a long wire, which immediately resounded inside. We stopped in front of a large, heavy, wooden entrance gate. Soon it squeaked open and "Get inside" was ordered.

I wasn't alone here. I saw my friends, some were acquaintances, huddled together at a certain distance in the jail yard. I approached Kristi, my American friend, and Mary.

Kristi said, "I saw Dana on the way to the police headquarters, so she'll know that the police are picking up U.S. citizens."

"Thank God, I'm not alone. I had no idea why they arrested me. I was worried that the Brown Shirt Nazi living upstairs reported me to the Gestapo for hoarding." Such a relief to know that I was not going to be alone.

I calmed down. Since we were all in the same predicament, we tried to cheer each other. There were thirty of us. Funny, I did not know many of them. Our ages ranged from 30 to 45, with one who was 60. We were all in reasonably good health, except the older woman, who had hot flashes from time to time.

"I wish they would give us something to eat," said Mary angrily, "I haven't eaten since last night."

"Neither have I."

"Nor I," muttered another one.

Soon we saw two haggard-looking, unshaven skeletons of men carrying a large metal container of some dark, thick fluid. Stacks of metal plates stood on the table in the middle of the jail yard; a soup ladle hung inside the container; chunks of dark bread lay beside the plates.

An orderly commanded, "Line up for soup."

Suddenly a long line of poor, hungry, frightened, wasted creatures appeared against the prison wall.

"Where did they come from?" I asked Mary.

"Oh, this is a way station for prisoners sent here from various camps en route to other places. Notice how wretched and pale they are. They must be starving, the poor fellows."

"I see no women among them," I said.

This way station was not the kind of place where you received humane treatment, a warm, clean bed, and good, hot soup. On the contrary, the prisoners, treated her as criminals, were screamed at, hustled with the butts of rifles to their dark, tight and dingy quarters. Their soup ration was skimpy and the hunk of bread allotted to them was small. Waiting in this way station was no happy experience.

When it was our turn to be served, we finally moved up to the soup container, the server suspiciously eyed us, then gave us our portion. Some already started eating the soup. One complained, "What a lousy soup this is, not a single potato floating in it. I wouldn't give it to my dog."

"I wonder what they put in it to make it," another one remarked.

By the time I dipped my spoon in the dark liquid, I had no more appetite for any of it. I poured the contents of my plate onto one of the prisoner's plate. Shortly, soup time was over. The plates and containers were taken away, carried by the emaciated prisoners.

Next, the guards hustled the thirty of us into a 13 x 15 foot room. No provision was made for us to lie down, because there were no cots, no beds, no chairs, only an elevation like a stage at one end of the room. On this we could sit. Otherwise, it was standing room only.

A single light dropped from the middle of the high ceiling, lit day and night. Once in the room we lost contact with other people, fresh air and sun ... no windows in the walls to tell night from day. To pass time, we exchanged views about how the guards had come to each of us. The stories were all the same.

"I was warned not to lose my I.D. card, so here I am," said Frances. "I wonder what they're going to do with us."

One of the women, age 40, who listened from the other end of the cell, a know-it-all, shouted, "I bet they're going to send us to Auschwitz for soap."

Immediately I felt a dislike for Meg. Why should she say such things to us and frighten us? It certainly was not a charitable thing to do.

None of us had a watch. We did not know what time of day it was, but we knew we could stand a good cup of coffee. Unfortunately, it was not forthcoming. We stood in little groups. Some of us became interested in deciphering the scribbles on the cell wall. Lists of arrivals and dates were scratched out with finger nails for lack of writing tools. Who would have thought of taking a pencil along during the arrest? None of us did; it never crossed my mind that I would ever need one.

"Oh, look whose name is here," shouted Mary.

The frail little woman at the far end of the cell began to tell us about him. "He was my neighbor. Mike, my husband, often wondered where he was and what happened to him. He wasn't here and he wasn't home, so he must have been transported with the group a few days ago to make room for us. Note the date here: September 10, 1942."