Marian Kalwary

Before the war, the only holidays I knew were Easter—because we boiled eggs in onion skins and painted the shells with watercolors—and Christmas, when we made paper chains from colored paper and decorated a Christmas tree. Both events were fascinating for a child, although I didn’t associate them with any religion. Of the Jewish holidays, I only knew about Sukkot, and that only because I was intrigued by the little booths set up on some balconies, which were often pelted with stones by street kids.

No Jewish language was spoken at home. My mother probably only knew it because she came from a small Mazovian town, Czerwińsk on the Vistula, where Jews almost exclusively communicated in that language. My father didn’t speak Jewish at all, which, as he later complained when he was already in the ghetto, made life very difficult for him. He came from a Warsaw family of furniture manufacturers. My mother’s family—the Wajselfiszes—moved to Warsaw even before the outbreak of World War I. After Poland regained independence, my mother, Tercja-Mira (a name given by her father, supposedly a wise man, who thought she was odd and also because she was the third child—though in everyday life she used the name Teresa), began studying dentistry at what was then the State Dental Institute. My father, Samuel, despite graduating from Wawelberg (the Wawelberg and Rotwand School—a higher mechanical-technical institution in Warsaw), specialized as a dental technician and did all the prosthetic work for my mother.

We lived in Praga, at 78 Targowa Street, apartment 2, where I was born. I had only one sibling—my sister Ryszarda, who was eight years older than me, which at that age was a clear social barrier. She attended a private gymnasium and high school, probably Rzeszotarska’s, and I had little contact with her. In 1939, she just managed to graduate.

In our apartment, one room was used as my mother’s office, which was entered through the dining room, doubling as a waiting room for patients. In a place of honor, on a special table with a crocheted doily, stood a tube radio. My father’s workshop took up a significant part of the kitchen. My early childhood passed between my mother’s office and my father’s workshop, whose work fascinated me, and I often assisted him. I was mainly used to collect scraps of dental gold. At the time, dental crowns were mostly made from gold discs, which my father shaped using a press and trimmed with special scissors. He wasn’t a meticulous man, so the clippings usually ended up scattered across the floor.

On Sundays, we either visited guests or guests came over for lunch. I didn’t take part in these gatherings—it wasn’t customary for children to participate in adult conversations—unless it was Grandma Wajselfisz, with whom I had a closer emotional bond. She usually came with her other daughter, Aunt Pola—a pharmacist, divorced, as her husband was supposedly a scoundrel.

I had no grandfathers—Wajselfisz died before I was born, and Kalwary when I was about two. My relationship with Grandma Kalwary was cold. (I really only got to know her in the ghetto, when she was bedridden. She was lucky to die a natural death in 1941.)

My mother worked very hard—from morning to evening, practically all week, with Sunday being her only day off. I suspect she was responsible for the entire household and its upkeep. She also had a second practice in Jabłonna, where she traveled by narrow-gauge railway—a little train from the station by the Kierbedź Bridge.

For the summer, we always went to what was called a letnisko—a country retreat. It was practically a full relocation by cart to a rented cottage near Warsaw. At first, it was Buchnik, and later Świder.

In Praga, I attended—or rather, was taken to—Mrs. Paschke-Folakowa’s kindergarten. However, when I reached school age in 1937, my upbringing became problematic due to the inevitable contact with the neighborhood kids. My courtyard friends exploited me, a naive child, to steal candies for them from the grocery store next to the gate. As I recall, they believed the shopkeeper wouldn’t suspect the “doctor’s” child of such disgraceful acts. Apparently, I wasn’t very good at it, because I got caught. The shopkeeper discreetly told my mother about the incident. As a result, I was placed in a reputable boarding school for children and youth run by Misses Wilczyńska and Winawerowa in Śródborów. (According to information I obtained from the Jewish Historical Institute, Wilczyńska did not survive the Holocaust, while Winawerowa managed to escape.)

Now I believe I was also sent to Śródborów because my parents’ relationship was gradually deteriorating. There were more and more arguments at home, which surely would have negatively impacted a child’s development.

Śródborów was wonderful. All the children were well-behaved, from so-called good families. The care was warm yet professional. In addition to playtime, we had a lot of educational activities. Narrow-gauge children’s films were screened on a portable projector, and there were even technical workshops. I remember building a crystal radio with a friend that, surprisingly, actually worked. I attended the first and second grades of school in Otwock from there. It was a Jewish school, but all instruction was in Polish. It was about two kilometers away, so I only went on nice, not-too-cold days. All I really remember about that school was the incredible noise and chaos. I don’t think I learned anything there. I don’t recall a single normal lesson or any teacher. I already knew how to read, write, and do some arithmetic from home, and the boarding school also provided some basic instruction, which probably benefited me more than the school itself.

Just before the war, my parents separated. My mother became involved with Zygmunt Wiśniewski, a civil engineer, whose role in my survival cannot be overstated. My father stayed in the apartment on Targowa Street, while my mother and I moved to an apartment in the Old Town, at 33 Freta Street. In 1937, she closed her practice in Jabłonna and opened a new one there. It was more than just an ordinary dental office: it had two workstations and a sign at the gate that read: “Dental Clinic.” For the time, it was a very modern facility. There was a separate entrance from the staircase, a waiting room furnished in a modern style (with so-called bentwood furniture from my father’s family factory—furniture my mother always emphasized she had to pay for, and dearly), and a spacious treatment room with two chairs and the latest equipment, which made a strong impression. My mother employed another dentist, still establishing her practice, to work at the second chair. There was also a separate restroom and even a telephone (I).

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Ghetto

Unfortunately, the war came. Poland, which was not supposed to give the Germans “even a button,” fell entirely into the hands of the invader in a flash.

At the beginning of 1940, my sister married a Pole, Henryk Kuszyński (he was randomly arrested by the Gestapo in the spring of 1944 and executed at Pawiak prison). For nearly a year, we lived in occupied Warsaw without yet fully feeling the horror of the situation—until the ghetto was established and we had to move there. That happened in October 1940. My father rented a place for himself—a tiny room with a kitchenette somewhere on Nowolipie Street. As usual, he set up his workshop in the kitchen, which took up almost all the space. In the small room, my grandmother Kalwary lay sick on a couch. (Before the war, she had lived with her daughter, Aunt Anka Zylbersztajn, who fled east with her husband Stach and their young son in September 1939. They survived somewhere in Siberia and returned to Warsaw in 1946 or 1947, then immediately emigrated to Palestine.)

My mother and I initially moved into a small room rented from a very nice, quite large family—possibly on Gęsia Street. I mostly stayed in their large room, always a welcome guest since they had no son, only a younger daughter I played with. I had already turned eleven, but from today’s perspective, I was still very much a child.

It was the beginning of the ghetto—there wasn’t yet the terrible overcrowding caused by the influx of people from other parts of Poland, and people hadn’t yet been reduced to total poverty, starvation, or exhaustion. Beggars and ragged people didn’t surprise anyone—it was typical of those neighborhoods even before the war. There was still electricity, and trams were running, marked with the Star of David. My mother often crossed over to the Aryan side and tried to adapt to the situation. I was usually left alone in the room and rarely left the apartment. Not yet exposed to the stark manifestations of extreme poverty, hunger, or human tragedy, I didn’t fully grasp the seriousness of the reality. For me, as a child, it still felt like an adventure—things were happening, but my mother was there, and I felt safe and cared for.

After a month or two, we moved to a new apartment at 52/54 Leszno Street. The building made a big impression on me—its external design and what would today be called the entire “infrastructure.” The elevators still worked, there were separate staircases for servants (without elevators), and a separate hot water system with a junkers gas heater (already non-functioning). The property consisted of two identical six-story buildings, set parallel to each other and perpendicular to the street, with façades adorned in Art Nouveau ornaments. Unusually, there was no traditional gate and courtyard; instead, an open passage between the buildings led to a long courtyard through a double-leaf wrought-iron gate. On either side of the gate were two small guardhouses, and next to them were pedestrian gates made of the same decorative metalwork. The courtyard extended behind both residential buildings, and behind them were low storage buildings owned by the Neufeld company, now unused.

My mother rented a room on the 4th floor from an elderly couple, the Epsztajns. They lived in a large dining room, which led to the kitchen, bathroom, and toilet. A smaller room (probably once for a servant) was occupied by their adult daughter. From the spacious hallway, one entered our large room and a smaller room rented by the Lipszyc family—a young couple with a 12- or 13-year-old daughter. (One night, Mr. Lipszyc was taken from the apartment and shot in the gate of a neighboring house. People said it was the Germans, but no one knew for sure.) The hallway also had a second, fairly large toilet with a sink.

My mother arranged our room to serve as a multifunctional space. A curtain on a rope separated the sleeping area from a makeshift dental office. She managed to save and transfer only essential equipment from her practice on Freta Street—an old foot-powered drill and some dental materials. I think her efforts were more symbolic, as I don’t recall any patients apart from family and friends. We also had a small cast-iron stove (“koza”) where we burned mostly briquettes. It was used for cooking but primarily to heat the room in winter. There were no traditional tiled stoves—only a non-functioning central heating system.

I spent almost all my time in the courtyard, playing with many new boys my age. The best playground was the empty space around the abandoned Neufeld company warehouses. Judging by the scattered remains—tiles and torn paint sacks—it had been a building supply business. A favorite activity was climbing onto and running along the warehouse roofs. Fortunately, no one got hurt. The atmosphere was still somewhat carefree. The building was relatively upscale for the time, so the children came from comparatively well-off families. Some friends’ apartments, which I visited, still preserved their pre-war furnishings and were occupied by single families.

The former Jewish janitor still worked there—a large, strong man. He lived in the basement of our stairwell with his wife and their twin children, a boy and a girl my age—freckled redheads. We got along well and were friends; I often visited them. Their financial situation was dire; I doubt the janitor was paid, and they had no other resources. Eventually, he converted one of the gatehouses into a kiosk. He installed a street-facing window and sold various food products with his wife—mainly sweets. I especially remember one type of candy in colorful cellophane wrappers.

Soon, restrictions began. Electricity was cut off, and the tram stopped running, replaced briefly by a horse-drawn omnibus. To keep me occupied, my mother enrolled me in a Jordan garden (a kind of public playground), which I reached by omnibus. It was in the so-called small ghetto—a slightly larger courtyard with sand and maybe one tree, full of relatively wealthy children whose parents could afford this “luxury.” But it didn’t last long, as that area was soon excluded from the ever-shrinking ghetto.

Despite the limited demand, artisan production in the ghetto flourished. I particularly remember the explosion in carbide lamp production—and armbands. When the electricity was cut, carbide and carbide lamps flooded the market. At first, they were made from tin cans with makeshift corks and tiny holes to release the flammable gas. Later, ceramic burners were produced with one, two, three, even four nozzles. Accessories appeared—wires to unclog holes, brushes, and more. Advanced lamps had separate containers for carbide and water with adjustable flow. There were even ornate multi-arm carbide chandeliers.

Nights, especially in winter, brought pitch-black darkness. Even without blackout regulations, there was no light to illuminate the streets. Children began wearing phosphorescent brooches pinned to their chests to avoid collisions. As for armbands: these weren’t just plain white bands with blue Stars of David. Depending on a client’s budget, they came in a variety of materials and qualities—soft, stiff, cloth, celluloid, printed, embroidered, stitched—attached with elastic, ribbon, safety pins, or simply slipped on. Street vendors were draped in them. But demand was limited: most people needed only one… from the day of purchase until the end.

Supply difficulties quickly intensified. The food portions, sometimes available through so-called coupons or ration cards, were minuscule—Lilliputian, really—and the quality was abysmal. People would sing: “Oy di bon’e, oy di bon’e, I don’t want to give up my coupons, ‘cause Hitler is a bastard and he’s taking them away,” but whether these coupons actually protected one from starvation or disease—I doubt it. My mother tried her best to secure food, usually bringing it from the Aryan side. Our daily staple was millet groats; anything else was hard to come by, not just due to cost but because of availability.

In 1941, a large commercial space on Leszno Street near our home was converted into a modern indoor market. I was dazzled by the place—clean wooden stalls, vendors in white aprons. It was a surprising oasis within the ghetto landscape. Strange, given the assortment of fairly normal goods: cheese, butter, poultry, even meat and sausages—all likely smuggled in. Prices must have been astronomical. I doubt my mother shopped there; she only showed it to me, as if it were a museum exhibit.

An extraordinary event I remember clearly was going with my mother to a small grocery store near our house. She bought me a bun with a thin slice of ham—an almost unimaginable treat. Our building had some relatively wealthy tenants. I remember visiting a neighbor friend who offered me a piece of roast turkey—another unbelievable experience, considering we mostly ate coarse rye dumplings, beets, frost-sweetened potatoes in winter, cursed yellow millet, and some strange cornmeal mush that had mysteriously appeared in Warsaw.

My mother continued crossing between the ghetto and Aryan side, often using the court buildings as a (costly) passage. The courthouse bore a proud, ironic inscription: “Justice is the pillar of strength and permanence of the Republic”. It stood directly across from our house. On the Aryan side, my mother only feared being recognized by someone who knew she was Jewish before the war. Thanks to her, I can say I never went hungry in the ghetto—an exception to the rule.

Our former nanny, Marysia Wanionek, stayed in our apartment at 33 Freta Street. Before the war, my mother had trained her as a dental assistant. Freta was on the Aryan side, but its windows overlooked Koźla Street—a mostly deserted area that initially fell within the ghetto. These windows became conduits for professional-scale food smuggling. Food was lowered on ropes from upper floors (ground-floor windows were bricked up), and milk was siphoned through hoses. Milk buyers even checked fat content with professional tools. A blue-uniformed Polish policeman often strolled nearby on Franciszkańska Street, but he was likely bribed, as he ignored it all.

I remember one time, Marysia lowered us a sack of potatoes through a window. We had a small cart and were wheeling the precious load home when, near Bonifraterska Street, a blue policeman stopped us:
“What are you carrying?”
“Nothing special.”
He kicked the cart over, spilling the potatoes. Clearly, he expected contraband. We gathered them back up and continued on.

The ghetto grew increasingly crowded. Diseases, especially typhus, spread. Alongside hunger, it was a leading cause of death. Every time we came home, we checked our clothing for lice. Hair too—fine-toothed lice combs and sabadilla tincture were in common use. Wealthier residents bought typhus vaccines. My mother, living an active and mobile life, was at high risk. She managed to acquire the vaccine and injected it into both arms and one thigh. But tragedy struck: the vaccines—claimed to be original Weigl types (from Professor Rudolf Weigl, later honored by Yad Vashem for saving Jews)—turned out to be counterfeits made by fraudsters. Not only did they fail to immunize, but they were also non-sterile and caused severe infections—phlegmons—that often led to death.

My mother became critically ill. Her partner arrived immediately from the Aryan side. She had a dangerously high fever and was fading fast. A medical council was convened, and, as I later learned, three of Poland’s top professors took part. They decided to surgically open the infected areas and clean them manually. Miraculously, sulfonamides were obtained. One of the best surgeons reportedly performed the operation. That night was critical. The doctors said if she survived it, she’d live. Her partner stayed by our side the entire time. I remember his serious, worried face. My mother was only 41. She survived. The lasting reminder was three 15-centimeter scars at the infection sites.

In this misfortune, there was one piece of luck—that Poland’s greatest medical experts happened to be in the same place and in the same situation.

By 1942, I had grown up a bit and started wandering the ghetto on my own. I often visited my father. His circumstances had become dire. His mother—my grandmother—had passed. He had no income, and his resources were dwindling. A dentist he knew in the Wołomin ghetto somehow managed to bring him there. I also visited Grandma Wajselfisz and Aunt Pola. My mother always sent something for them, and Grandma tried to treat me to something tasty she’d made herself.

The ghetto streets… Their images are etched so deeply in my memory that when I close my eyes, I still see them with all their tragic details. The most shocking sight: corpses covered with newspapers or scraps of paper. Skeleton-like bodies passed by with indifference by the shoving crowds. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of starving beggars. The entire street cried out: “A shtikele brot, a shtikele brot, gib a shtikele brot!” (A piece of bread, give a piece of bread!). That’s all I remember hearing.

Every few meters there was a child—a skeletal child—begging. Dozens lay on the street with hunger-swollen feet, openly displaying their illnesses. The sheer scale of it was terrifying. And then there were children trying to trade worthless items or performing in the streets. I remember a little, malnourished girl—maybe six or seven—sitting in winter on the doorstep of a closed store on Miodowa Street, with a piece of paper spread before her and a few shoe insoles laid out. I can still hear her soft, sing-song voice: “Warm insoles, men’s and women’s…”—repeating endlessly.

I never saw a customer. I stood there often because across the street was a little café with a black accordion-style blackout shutter. Cut into the paper covering the window was a little man in a fez, backlit from inside. He was pasted over with brown and red celluloid, and above him, the words “coffee, tea” were cut out and backlit in color. That sign fascinated me—perhaps because of the color in such a grey, dirty world, or the exotic character, or maybe just the fleeting hint of normalcy in that profoundly abnormal setting.

Once, a man collapsed on the sidewalk outside the café. Even though people were used to such sights, a few passersby took pity, sat him on a step, and a waitress came out with a glass of hot tea. Ersatz tea, of course—hot water dyed with burnt sugar and a saccharine tablet. A week or two later, I returned—but the doorstep was empty. The girl was gone.

On Leszno Street, just past the courthouse toward Żelazna Street, a very thin girl, maybe around twelve, performed classical ballet figures on a blanket. She wore pointe shoes, a leotard, and a tulle skirt. Next to her, her father—or so I presumed—played the violin. She was likely a former student of a ballet school. Also on Leszno, but in the direction of “number thirteen” (Leszno 13—headquarters of the Jewish police in the ghetto), a boy, perhaps even younger than I was, played the violin. I never saw anyone toss a coin into their collection tins. Now, when I recall those scenes, I see the resignation and hopelessness painted on those children’s sad little faces.

With each passing month of 1942, the streets looked more and more tragic. Lying against building walls were nearly motionless skeletons in rags. Skeletal mothers holding skeletal children. Powerless human shadows… Yet, alongside this horror, life somehow tried to go on. Maybe people had grown so accustomed to these sights that a layer of emotional numbness had formed—or maybe nature simply abhors a vacuum and seeks to fill it, even with bacteria.

Next to us, at Leszno 56, there operated what appeared to be a brothel. Outside the gate, elegantly dressed and made-up young women regularly strolled. Boys my age were extremely curious, and we often followed them around, pestering them without really understanding why. A few houses down, probably at number 60, there was a bakery in the courtyard. Every Friday, some locals would carry in pots of cholent (a traditional Sabbath stew). My mother made it once too, though with a painfully limited range of ingredients.

Prayer houses were still in operation—rooms on ground floors or in basements where I would sometimes peer through the windows, watching men davening, rocking back and forth in prayer.

Time, which in normal life always seems to pass too quickly, dragged in the ghetto unbearably. Each day crept by slowly, as if in defiance of itself.

Let me stress once again: only thanks to my mother did I belong to the rare group of lucky ones who did not go hungry in the ghetto and had a basic means of survival. I don’t know whether someone told my mother what the Germans were planning, or whether it was her feminine or maternal intuition, but sometime around July 17–18, 1942, she crossed to the Aryan side. I’m not sure for what reason—business or otherwise—but as was often the case, I was left alone in the apartment with enough food for a few days.

Then, on the morning of July 20 or 21—very early—I heard a knock on the door. I opened it and saw a court messenger, in uniform and cap, holding a summons for me to appear as a witness in a case. With a sly smile he said, “Listen, get ready very, very quickly and go—they’re already waiting for you at the court.”

So off I went, holding the paper, across the street to the court building, through the main entrance—the only one accessible to Jews. The side entrances were sealed off by walls. At the door stood a large, heavyset Blue Policeman. He checked the summons and barked, “Why aren’t you wearing an armband?”
“Because I haven’t turned 12 yet,” I replied politely. It was true—I hadn’t. But I probably looked older. I was tall for my age.

Inside, a prearranged court usher was waiting for me. He led me through what seemed like a never-ending maze of corridors. We passed many people, but everyone seemed focused on their own concerns. No one paid any attention to us. Eventually, he brought me close to an exit on the Aryan side.

In the foyer, my mother’s partner was waiting. When he saw me, he looked horrified—on my head was a thick, jet-black mop of curly hair, something we’d now call an “afro.”
“Why didn’t you get a haircut?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Why didn’t you bring a hat?”
“I didn’t know.”

He went to the cloakroom and bought a peaked cap from the attendant. I jammed it on my head. It was a bit too large, but it got the job done and allowed me to walk out onto Ogrodowa Street—already on the Aryan side—without incident.

I assume everyone at the courthouse had been bribed: the ushers, clerks, even the policeman, who surely knew the summons was fake. Or perhaps something even more improbable happened—maybe many of them were sympathetic. I didn’t have a particularly Jewish appearance—I wasn’t gaunt, nor did I have strongly Semitic features—but my brown eyes and that wild hair gave me away.

Immediately after exiting, my mother’s partner took me to a barber, where I was shaved bald—what we then called “cut to zero.” He, despite being dark-haired, had a typically Polish, Warsaw appearance, while I, ironically, didn’t look like a child from the ghetto. Nothing happened. The barber—kind, as I recall—smiled knowingly and got to work. He probably understood exactly what was going on and had done this before.

As I later found out, the next day the Leszno courthouse was closed to Jews. I had crossed over on the last possible day. The very next morning, the deportations began. Left behind in the ghetto were Grandma Wajselfisz and Aunt Pola. I don’t even know when they died—whether before being sent to the Umschlagplatz or in Treblinka.

Right after the haircut, my mother’s partner took me by rickshaw to an empty apartment. I don’t know where it was—I had strict instructions not to approach the windows. That didn’t last long. Later that same evening, he picked me up again and took me to another apartment for just one night.

The atmosphere there stunned me—it felt like a different world. In the room where I was to sleep lived two young women and an older lady. Life felt normal. The girls had just returned from the cinema and were discussing the film excitedly. It was all so carefree and cheerful. They gave me something to eat, and in the morning, I was taken to the Warszawa Wileńska train station. I was supposed to travel alone to my father, in the Wołomin ghetto. Someone would be waiting for me at the station there.

Evidently, my mother had decided that the Wołomin ghetto was safer. But I had an adventure even before reaching it. In the train, a man standing near the door—possibly a railroad worker, judging by his partial uniform—began eyeing me:
“Hey, you’re a little Jew. Show me your papers.”
“I don’t have any. I’m a child—and I’m Polish, not Jewish.”
“Then I’ll get the police,” he said, and walked out of the compartment to look for one.

Back then, suburban train cars didn’t have interior corridors. Each compartment had its own exterior doors and steps, and moving between them required going outside—on the train’s external ledge. In my compartment were several peasant women—probably smugglers. One of them leaned in conspiratorially and said, “Listen, run for it.” We were almost in Wołomin.

I don’t remember the exact details, but I was terrified. She told me where the train would slow down—near the ghetto. And indeed, it nearly stopped at a crossing right beside the ghetto. I wasn’t very clever—I jumped out clumsily and hit a pole with my left shoulder. The consequences of that injury remain with me to this day. I don’t remember who helped me or how, but somehow I reached the ghetto and found my father safely.

The Wołomin ghetto, although not completely closed off, didn’t seem to enforce the same strict rules as the Warsaw ghetto. There was a gate and a guard post, but hardly any traffic passed through. Yet it was there that I witnessed for the first time something deeply shocking: a guard shot and killed an elderly Jewish woman who tried to leave the ghetto.

The ghetto bordered a small lake, and next to it was an unguarded passage into the Aryan zone. Living conditions in the Wołomin ghetto were difficult, though not nearly as overcrowded as in Warsaw. Nor was there the same level of hunger. People maintained small garden plots near their homes—some even had fruit trees.

I stayed with my father in the small apartment of a female dentist he knew. She wasn’t married and had a daughter, a teenage girl. The apartment was located in one of the only brick, two-story buildings in the ghetto. I think there were about ten such buildings in total. Each had four flats—two on the ground floor and two upstairs. Before the war, these houses had been built for railway workers and happened to fall within the ghetto area due to their location.

In front of the building was a small garden where tomatoes were ripening—an absolute marvel to me. I think I may have sneaked a few. I also remember a tree full of ulęgałki (wild pears) and the fruit scattered on the ground. I wasn’t there long—maybe two months.

In September, rumors began circulating that the ghetto was about to be liquidated. Alarmed, my father contacted my mother. One day, her partner appeared again and led me out of the ghetto—through that very same path by the lake. He brought me to a small house somewhere in Wołomin.

In Hiding

It was already evening. I found myself at the home of a very kind, middle-aged woman. She had a son, my age. He led me to the coal shed, where a mattress had been laid out for me to sleep on. Soon after, he brought me some food and a bucket for the obvious purpose. He stayed with me for quite a while, and we chatted in a friendly way. I have the impression that they were warm, decent people—perhaps acquaintances of my mother. I spent one night there.

In the morning, my mother’s partner came and took me to the train station, and we traveled together to Wieliszew, near Legionowo. From there, we walked through woods and sandy terrain—quite far from the station—to a small, isolated house where the Dąbrowski family lived. Very kind, elderly (or so they seemed to me then) people. The man went to work every day, while the woman stayed at home.

That same day, my mother’s partner taught me the entire Catholic prayer (the Lord’s Prayer) by heart. He also placed a medallion around my neck. I had a tiny room in the attic, and every evening I knelt by the bed and loudly recited the prayer. I think the Dąbrowskis either knew or suspected my true origins. After all, they could have confirmed any doubts while I was sleeping. But everything remained in full secrecy, and they never once brought up the topic. We only discussed everyday life.

They weren’t wealthy and lived in great hardship. We ate food from the garden, even the potatoes came from there. The only meat we had came from a rabbit they raised themselves. I wasn’t exactly hiding, since the house was completely isolated. Whenever Mrs. Dąbrowska had to leave—though that was rare—I would always go with her. She introduced me as her nephew. We walked several kilometers to some nearby buildings where she bought a small sack of rye—and we carried it home together. Later, we went through a large forest to someone who had a hand mill, and we ground the grain into coarse flour. From that, she made dumplings, pancakes, and something like bread. I don’t recall them buying anything else apart from salt and saccharin.

My main job was to graze the family goat in the nearby thickets. It was the family’s main source of nutrition and their only source of dairy. One day, I went a little farther with the goat and was spotted by a group of village children who had also wandered from their homes. They were my age but saw me as a stranger—therefore, an outsider, therefore a Jew. They started shouting insults: “Oh, kike! Kike!” I retreated with the goat, and luckily they didn’t follow. I told Mrs. Dąbrowska about the incident. She fell silent, said nothing. After that, she didn’t let me take the goat out again. A few days later, my mother’s partner came and took me to Sędziszów Kielecki.

He had excellent papers, as he worked as an engineer for a water and sewage company—Polish, but contracted by the Germans. This gave him relative freedom of movement throughout the General Government.

In Sędziszów, he brought me to my mother. They were living in part of an old barracks near the railway station, in a room with a kitchen. The conditions were very primitive. Nearby, German railway workers lived in newly built cottages. Both my mother and her partner spoke fluent German. Her forged documents listed her as his wife, and me as their son. As a result, the way I addressed him changed—from “sir” to “papa”. I reserved “tata” for my biological father.

We were probably the only Polish family there. Papa was overseeing sewage works at the Sędziszów railway station, and my mother handled administrative matters related to his work. In the same barracks, in two rooms, lived a few laborers who worked with Papa—young men from the countryside. (Right after the war, one of them came to visit us. It turned out he was Jewish and said he had suspected we were too—especially me. He had always been fond of me. Sadly, when he returned to his village, he was murdered.)

My mother also worked occasionally for the Germans as a housemaid, mostly mending their socks—an essential job for women before and during the war. We weren’t particularly afraid of the Germans, because their idea of a Jew came straight from Goebbels’ propaganda posters: long coats, sidelocks, hooked noses—and of course, people who were denounced, often by some Poles. We had a hair clipper, and my mother shaved my head nearly every week.

Near our barracks were a dozen trees. I remember going there often with a German who shot birds, and I would carry his “trophies.” Several times, German railwaymen came to visit us—possibly to bring socks for repair. They complained about partisans, calling them Banditen, saying they shot at them in the forests and attacked them. One even complained that partisans were handing over Jews through the Polish police, and the Germans then “had to kill those damned Jews.” He said it as if it were some chore—something the partisans or the Polish police should have done themselves. Reports we heard said that partisans—in that area, the Jędrusie—often did in fact carry out such killings for the Germans.

I remember one German who told us his entire family had died in an Allied bombing of Aachen. He wept and ranted about Hitler. I think that little room of ours was perhaps the only place where a desperate German railwayman could unburden himself. It all seems incredible now—but that’s how I remember it. My mother exuded kindness and had a rare gift for winning people over—some even in spite of themselves.

In Sędziszów, we actually had quite a bit of food. My mother managed the rationed supplies for the small group of laborers I mentioned. We also had contact with village women who brought food—dairy and poultry—for the Germans and occasionally for us. The Germans paid her not with money, but with food: flour, sugar, margarine.

My mother was always thinking about my sister, who, along with her husband in Warsaw, was reportedly having serious problems with food. She felt responsible for helping them and started sending food parcels by post—usually eggs, heavily salted butter, cured meat in jars, and pasta we made ourselves, often in considerable quantities. I still remember exactly how the eggs were packed: each one wrapped in pieces of the Krakauer Zeitung (the German-language newspaper published in the southern part of the General Government), then placed into folding, accordion-style cardboard boxes.

I would take these packages to the post office in the nearby town, about 2–3 km from the station. We sent them to Warsaw, addressed to the pharmacy where my sister’s husband, Henryk Kuszyński, worked. To elevate the tone of the address, the label said in big letters: “Für Herr Heinrich” (For Mr. Henryk). After sending several packages from Sędziszów, my mother decided it would be wiser to switch post offices to avoid drawing suspicion.

The nearest post office was in the neighboring town of Jędrzejów. The next time, I boarded the train with the parcel and went there. After about 30 minutes of slow travel, I arrived. The post office was near the station, in a corner building. I had no problems sending the parcel and returned home.

A week later, we decided to repeat the maneuver. I went to the station. The passenger train from Kraków to Kielce arrived. As always, a large “V” (for victory) was painted on the front of the locomotive, along with the slogan: “Räder müssen rollen für den Sieg” (Wheels must turn for victory).

I got into a compartment. Inside were a few women, and sitting directly across from me was a Polish railway worker. He kept staring at me and then said:
“Listen, you’re a little Jew, aren’t you?”
“What? No! I’m working, see? I’m just delivering this package to the post office.”
“Where do you work?”
I showed him my employee ID—a document from the company where “Papa” worked, the same kind issued to all workers. My mother had prepared it—she had access to stamps and blank forms.
“Come with me to the bathroom. We’ll check.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. Are you crazy? I’m not a Jew. Leave me alone.”
“Come on, we’re going to the bathroom!”
I shrugged and pretended I didn’t understand what he was talking about. The women in the compartment stayed completely silent, as if they hadn’t heard a thing.

We reached Jędrzejów. I got out. He grabbed me by the arm and got off too, holding me tight. He looked around for a German policeman or a Blue Policeman—but there was no one. Almost hysterically, he started shouting to the people on the platform:
“Damn it, there’s no gendarme around—people, call the Bahnschutz!”
(Bahnschutspolizei – German railway police)

A crowd quickly formed. “What’s going on?” “They caught a Jew! They caught a Jew!” The mood was gleeful, euphoric—like it was a street fair, a circus trick, or a two-headed calf.

Then came the miracle: there really wasn’t a gendarme in sight—an extremely rare situation. The railwayman had to catch his shift in Kielce—the train was about to leave. He let go of me, jumped into the moving train, and left.

Before the doors closed, he snarled: “If it weren’t for my shift, you’d see what would’ve happened!”
(And he was probably right—I wouldn’t have had to wait long to find out…)

The railway was militarized, and missing a shift could’ve had serious consequences for him personally. I was also lucky that no one else in the crowd picked up where he left off. The crowd dispersed, a bit disappointed—no finale. The show was over.

I went to the post office, sent the package, and returned home.

My mother and Papa were terrified. They feared that the man had memorized the information on my ID and might show up in Sędziszów. But he was likely so drunk on his own hatred and sense of triumph that he forgot all about it.

From that moment on, I never stepped outside the house again.

Our little apartment also had a cellar, with a concealed entrance hidden in the floor near the front door. It was my emergency hiding place. When groups of civilians were wandering around—especially those who looked Polish and happened to be accompanied by a uniformed German—it posed a potential threat. If they were to enter our barrack, it was better if I didn’t exist. So I used the cellar frequently—sometimes for short periods, sometimes for longer.

Due to Papa’s work, a few local Polish men also came to our place. I remember a very kind man named Mr. Suchara, a carpenter who built many necessary furnishings both for us and the neighboring workers—beds, benches, tables, and various household items for my mother, even a toilet seat that could be placed over a bucket.

I also remember a man named Muszyński, a retired railwayman working as a watchman. He was already an older man with a bushy mustache, and he often stopped by for a chat. He was an unbelievable anti-Semite, truly bloodthirsty. He once told us about a very wealthy Jewish farm: when the Germans came to take the whole family, two sons, in their twenties, escaped.
“Such fine boys, wearing officer boots,” he told my mother. “So well-dressed, so much gold with them. They just wanted a place to sleep.”
He had welcomed them in—and then during the night, went to the gendarmerie. They were taken and shot.
He bragged about it, proud of what he thought he’d done for Poland.

After the war, karma caught up with him. He went on a looting trip to the Recovered Territories, and on his way back, he had a heart attack and died.

In the spring of 1944, while in Kielce, Papa was caught in a round-up. Despite having work papers (ausweis), he was sent to forced labor somewhere in the west. My mother somehow received a message with his address and went there. She convinced the Germans that he had tuberculosis, that he could infect others, and she managed to get him released from labor.

There was another remarkable story that showed just how extraordinary my mother was.

My sister—by then a widow—had taken part in the Warsaw Uprising as a medic. After the surrender, like many others, she ended up in Pruszków, a transit camp. My mother went there to get her and brought her back to Sędziszów.

My sister knew German fairly well from school, so my mother arranged for her to work as a maid for a Treuhänder—a German manager of confiscated estates. One day, my sister decided to take a Sunday trip to Kraków. She considered herself a full-blooded Polish woman. She didn’t look Jewish and had even become quite religious as a Christian.

But the moment she got off the train in Kraków, blackmailers (szmalcownicy) stopped her and demanded money. She didn’t have any—so they turned her in to the Gestapo. She was taken to Montelupich prison, and from there, she was sent to the Płaszów concentration camp.

But she managed to send us a secret note (gryps), and my mother went to Kraków, to the Gestapo (!). The first time, she achieved nothing. The second time, she was allowed in to speak to the commandant.

She told him she had known the girl since childhood, had witnessed her baptism, and that she could not possibly be Jewish. I don’t know how she convinced that German, but apparently, he looked into her face, then called his adjutant and said:
“Diese Frau hat das Recht” (“This woman speaks the truth”).
He ordered my sister’s release.

An unbelievable event.

The two of them returned to Sędziszów. My sister later told us she had already been marched out to be shot, and that just before the execution, a German arrived and handed over a paper. She was called out by name—and freed.

And so, by limiting our contact with Poles to the absolute minimum, we managed to survive the war, living near a German railway workers’ settlement.

Liberation

One night in mid-January 1945, the Germans suddenly disappeared. And the next morning, the Russians arrived—they took over the settlement. Next door, in the only two-story building, they set up a hospital. I began walking freely around the settlement and nearby areas, making friends with Polish boys and local residents, who were mostly railway families.

I no longer had my head shaved, and my black hair quickly grew back. The “neighbors” suddenly realized they had overlooked the fact that there were Jews living right next to them (!). Since the Germans were gone, they denounced us to the Russians, claiming we were selling moonshine to soldiers. Of course, we weren’t—where would we have even gotten it? The Russians were apparently trying to maintain the appearance of discipline in their ranks, or at least prevent drunkenness among soldiers.

And then—a knock at the door. A Soviet political officer (politruk) entered. A young, dark-haired man in glasses. He laid out some forms—a personal questionnaire—and began asking questions: name, surname, etc. Nationality?

My mother—who, in addition to German, spoke excellent Russian—replied calmly: “Yevrei” (Jews).
The officer froze. Then suddenly, he stood at attention, saluted, and without a word walked out.

That moment might have saved us from being “re-educated” in the far east.

Later, my mother began rebuilding our lives. A few months later, we returned to Warsaw. She formally married her longtime partner. Before that, she had learned the fate of my father. She met a prewar acquaintance—a dental technician—who told her that in the autumn of 1942, he had run into my father on a train from Wołomin to Warsaw. He was in terrible condition.

He had escaped during the liquidation of the ghetto.
He asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to the ghetto or to the Germans. Let them shoot me. I have nothing left. They robbed me—they even took the ring off my finger. I barely escaped them; they were already taking me to the police. I have no way out. I’m done.”

He was 44 years old. He could have survived—he didn’t have a Semitic appearance or Jewish accent.
But they didn’t let him.

In mid-1945, through the Jewish community, I was admitted to the Jewish Orphanage in Zatrzebie, near Warsaw. In an accelerated program, together with a group of boys and girls from the orphanage, we completed middle school in Falenica, earning what was then called a “small matura” (lower secondary diploma).

In autumn 1947, I returned to Warsaw. My mother and her husband already had an apartment. She reopened her dental practice and resumed work. I enrolled in high school, passed my final exams in 1949, and then came university, work, marriage, and so on—and life went on at full speed…

Epilogue

I have described these events because they cannot be erased from memory—but they also cannot be the only thing one lives by, because that might lead to madness.

The experience of the Holocaust undoubtedly tied me deeply to Jewish identity, and also… split my heart between Poland and Israel.

It is not my intention to cast all Poles in a negative light, and I would not want the above text to be read that way. Almost all Jews who survived the Holocaust in Poland owe their survival—at least in part—to the help, sacrifice, and sometimes heroism of Poles.

However, I believe that even more Jews perished because of Polish cruelty, meanness, and greed.

Let us remember the first group—think of them warmly and recall them with affection.
As for the second group, let them be cast into the abyss of oblivion.