Chapter 3

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.