Danuta Hawel, born in 1940

I never had a doll

I remember, I remember very well the events and people, although I was only 3-and-a-half years old when I was escorted out of the ghetto (in Zawiercie). Now I’m 66 and I worry that I will forget. My granddaughters, even the older one Maja, to whom I wish to pass on my memories, are still too young to understand and remember. That’s why I decided to describe my experiences from those horrific years, even though I’m not sure I’ll know how.

In July 1943, that is, when I was 3-and-a-half years old, my father took me to the border of the ghetto (I don’t remember if there was a wall there), behind which Marysia waited for me while a paid-off gendarme turned a blind eye. I don’t remember my father, who took me to Marysia, but the moment she took my hand, my child brain started working, observing, and remembering on different, higher, frequencies. I wasn’t afraid of Marysia. I knew her and liked her a lot. I was very attached to her. She was there when I was born, and she lived with Mama and me until we were confined to the ghetto. Before the war, she had been the nanny to my little brother Natan, blessed be his memory, who died in 1938 at the age of 5. I was born two years later “in his place.”

After crossing the perimeter of the ghetto, I became someone else. I knew that my name was no longer Estusia Żerykier but Dzidzia Matysek (that was Marysia’s last name), and I never got them mixed up. Under the cover of dusk, little Dzidzia Matysek with Marysia Matysek scurried toward two German officers who were supposed to help hide me. I don’t know exactly how they were supposed to help but they must have gotten cold feet because they wouldn’t let us in. I remember Marysia knocking, calling, and me—crying. Finally, in an act of despair, she gave me a boost and pushed me through the window of the locked foyer. Of course, she climbed up after me. Trembling with fear, we waited until nightfall. The same way we got in, we got out onto the street and sneaking down alleys, because it was curfew, and we reached Marysia’s apartment. Marysia only rented a bed in a shared room with an old woman, as I thought at the time. Luckily, she was already asleep. We climbed into the bed. I fell asleep but I have no doubt that Marysia didn’t get a wink of sleep. In the morning, “the old woman” told Marysia to get me out of there immediately. I only know this from stories.

Marysia contacted my parents and in the evening, I was transferred to Mrs. S., who lived around the corner. I was supposed to find shelter at her place “until the end of the war.” I spent the entire day in a wardrobe. This was my first “wardrobe” day. I remember it. It was dark, I was scared and uncomfortable, and I couldn’t wait for Marysia to come and take me out of there. But I kept quiet! At that point, I didn’t know that many, many a day like that were ahead of me. You can get used to anything—especially when you face death. I, too, quickly got used to sitting in the wardrobe. I stopped noticing the discomfort and it became a routine. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Let’s go back to that evening when I was brought to Mrs. S. (I’ll explain soon why I’m not giving her full last name.) Mrs. S. was a widow. She was, if I think about it, in her early forties. She had two daughters: the elder Basia and the younger Zosia.

Mrs. S. and Basia worked at Luftwaffe (a large textile factory where uniforms for the German air force were sewn). Zosia,  the younger one, also worked somewhere because all of them left home in the morning. Mrs. S. had a very cold and unkind appearance. I was scared of her from the moment I saw her.

I got detailed instructions about what I could and couldn’t do. In a word, I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t speak loudly, only whisper. God forbid, if I got close to the window! Fair enough. I couldn’t cough, I couldn’t sneeze, and if I had to, I was to do it into a small cushion—known in our area as jasiek [translated into English as Johnny—trans. note]. I had to carry this jasiek around at all times, in case I needed it. I was allowed to sit on the floor or walk, but keep away from the window, and if I heard any voices or footsteps on the stairs, “I wasn’t there”; that is, I had to immediately hide under the table or inside the wardrobe.The table was pushed against the kitchen wall and its three sides were covered with a thick cloth. Underneath, on the floor, there was a blanket and a pillow, and in the corner, a potty. The wardrobe—wide and tall, filled with hangers and clothes—stood in the living room. The bottom of the wardrobe was also laid with a blanket. I’ll explain later the rules for hiding in either place.

Shelter at Mrs. S.’s seemed very safe because Mrs. S. had contacts with the Germans. She traded with them, and they often came by in the evenings to play cards and drink vodka. And as we know, “the best place to hide is in the plain sight.” Most probably it was these German officers, to whom we went with Marysia, that were supposed to organize a hiding place for me, because they were frequent visitors there. One of them—as I heard after the war—put a bullet in his brain, and the other was probably sent to the front. Unfortunately, I only know this from stories.

Too many people knew about me. I had to vanish from Mrs. S.’s place. I remember riding a peasant cart: I was curled up under the seat, covered with a blanket while Mrs. S. and Basia sat above me. After that, we had to walk for a stretch in the forest. I was already very tired. We reached a footbridge over the river. The footbridge was very narrow, not wider than a floorboard. You had to walk across it. God, I was petrified. I wouldn’t go. I cried. Mrs. S. kept yelling at me. It wasn’t until dear, kind, Basia picked me up, held me tightly and very slowly, step by step, carried me to the other side.

The night fell before we reached my next destination. It was the house of Mrs. Dąbrowska in the village of Koziegłowy, around twenty kilometers from Zawiercie. Mrs. Dąbrowska was a very kind, level-headed, countrywoman. She was also a widow with two daughters—Wiesia and Wanda. I don’t remember Mrs. Dąbrowska’s first name because I simply called her “Grandma.”

I was very happy there. I was free. I walked around in the yard, across fields. I fed the geese, which nipped me on several occasions. Mrs. Dąbrowska told her neighbors that I was a child of their relatives (from some distant town), whose parents had been rounded up and sent for labor to Germany. When confronted with the accusation that I looked like a “little Jew,” she replied: “Don’t you remember when the Germans took my son to the Gestapo for his Jewish looks? I was lucky they didn’t kill him.” It was true. Mrs. D.’s son didn’t live in that village and I never saw him.

Not everyone was satisfied with that explanation, though. The cobbler Mizera lived in the same Cegielniana Street, very close to us, across the road. I remember him, I remember that house and the room to which he often called me. He pried. He couldn’t stand my dark eyes and black curly hair. He didn’t believe Mrs. Dabrowska’s little story. I’ll go back to this vile character a little later.

Mrs. Dąbrowska and her daughters were very kind to me, especially the elder daughter Wiesia, who liked me a lot and I liked her too. She’d always give me a hug or a kiss. I don’t remember either of them ever screaming or hitting me. I was never hungry there. I ate what they did. Of course, I never stopped missing my dear Marysia. One time, I even ran away from home to see her in Zawiercie. Fortunately, I stepped in to pray in a local church before my onward journey. I was found there by a distraught Wiesia. I was lucky that it was Wiesia, and not “Grandma” or Wanda, because they would have spanked me, and rightly so. Wiesia hugged and kissed me. She was crying. She explained that I mustn’t leave home by myself because the Germans would catch and kill me, and later, they’d kill “Grandma,” Wanda, and her. I swore I would never try to run away again and I kept my promise. Initially, Marysia came to visit me every week or two. It was a dreadful journey for her. She could only take the train up to a point, and then I think she had to walk for ten kilometers through the forest. She’d come on Saturdays and go back on Sundays. She’d bring some nicer food, which she managed to get for food stamps or from her family in the country. And in August and September, she picked blackberries for me along the way. God, they tasted heavenly! You won’t believe it, but I can still taste them to this day. You can’t buy them like that anymore. But every time she had to leave, it crushed me. That’s why later she didn’t come as often.

As I said before, I was happy there. I learned about country life. I fed geese and a cow. One nice next-door neighbor would even put me on his horse and walk me around. It was fun! My horse-riding came to a stop when I wanted to go “by myself” and the horse threw me off. I was OK. That neighbor was a very good man. I’m sorry, good man, I don’t remember your name. Unfortunately, that’s how it goes. You forget the good things sooner. But I’ll never forget you or your horse and the yard where you let me ride it.

But there were also scary moments. I remember one time, we were sitting inside because it was late fall or even winter. Suddenly, Grandma Dąbrowska looked out of the window and cried out: “Christ Almighty—a German in the yard!” Within seconds, she pushed me into the bed under the pillows and comforter. She fixed it up, smoothed it over, and straightened the bed throw. The German came in, moved the comforter a little and sat on the edge of that bed, where I was lying paralyzed, half-dead with fear. I barely breathed. I don’t know what he wanted; he chatted for a while, picked up, and left. I don’t know how long it took—probably not too long, otherwise I would have suffocated. But for me and Mrs. Dąbrowska it was ages.

When she pulled me out of there, I was so mortified that I was speechless. For the next few days, I couldn’t utter a single word. To hide it from the neighbors, my “grandma” didn’t let me leave the bed and told everyone that I was sick. I got my speech back and everything would have been fine if it hadn’t been for the cobbler Mizera, whom I’ve mentioned earlier. He didn’t believe that I was a relative of Mrs. Dąbrowska’s and kept prying. He continued to chat me up, lure me into his house where he gave me candy, which I didn’t have and was hungry for, while asking questions about what my real name was, what the names of my mama and papa were, where I was from, etc. And I’d accept the candy and reply that my name was Dzidzia Matysek, my mama’s name was Marysia, my papa was Staś, that they had been caught by the Germans and sent for labor but I didn’t know where to… and this is where I’d start crying. I played my role flawlessly. I think I played it well because quite often, Mizera’s wife or other people who were around would say: “Leave the child alone” and I’d get another piece of candy. He also would check if I knew my prayers. And I knew everything: “Our Father,” “Hail Mary,” “I Believe in God,” and “Under Your Protection.” My favorite was “Under

Your Protection.” I also remembered “The Litany of Loreto” and “The Litany of the Saints” by heart. I’m not sure if a child receiving the First Communion today knows as much as I did back then. And I prayed fervently. I simply believed that these prayers would protect me— is what my dear Marysia told me, and it did protect me for a long time, because people would say that a Jewish child wouldn’t be able to say her prayers so beautifully.

But the cobbler Mizera knew better. He simply knew—this girl was a Jewish child! He gave Mrs. Dąbrowska an ultimatum: she either got rid of me or he’d report me to the Gestapo. Maybe he pitied his neighbor a little (or feared the revenge of the other neighbors) because he didn’t go straightaway. There was no alternative: she had to move me. I stayed there from August 1943 until February 1944.

I don’t know and I’ll never learn how Marysia managed to talk Mrs. S. into taking me back. Marysia told me that she demanded that, since Mrs. S. had taken all the money, she had to do right by me and take me back. But I don’t think that this would have swayed her by itself. Having analyzed everything I know, I suspect she threatened Mrs. S. with revealing her dealings with the Germans. Marysia didn’t care either way. If Mrs. S. hadn’t taken me back, Marysia and I surely would have perished. She didn’t have a penny to cover for my shelter any more. And I think that she was ashamed to admit to this blackmail. But these are my conjectures and maybe I shouldn’t be mentioning this at all. We’ll never know the truth. What mattered was that I had a place to stay again.

This was winter, February. They brought me back to Zawiercie to Mrs. S. by sleigh, underneath potato sacks. I remember that freezing night, hidden under the potatoes. I remember climbing up the stairs so stealthily. I wouldn’t climb down from there until eleven months later. The world shut behind me. I was 4 years old. I got my “commandments” about what I could and couldn’t do. I was absolutely forbidden to speak loudly, or speak normally, for that matter. I could only whisper. Under no circumstances could I get close to a window, cough, or sneeze. I had to carry around that cushion I’ve mentioned and quietly cough into it if I needed to. I was allowed to sit on the floor and play by the stove in the kitchen, which was far away from the window. I could hang out in the room by the bed, which was also in the corner opposite the window, and sit on the floor there. I spent the most time in the kitchen under the table, which I’ve described in the beginning, because when Mrs. S. was home after work, she might have an unannounced guest.

The second hiding place was the wardrobe, which stood in the room. I was locked in the wardrobe when a guest was expected and it was anticipated that they’d sit around for a while (in the kitchen). I was to hide in these two locations immediately after hearing any unexpected footsteps or voices on the staircase.

As I mentioned earlier, I spent days on end alone. Mrs. S. and her daughters left home in the morning and came back late. They left me food, which Marysia brought me in the evening, and something to drink for the day. My dear Marysia checked on me every evening. She brought me food, cooked, and gave me a hot meal. She washed me, emptied my potty, and what mattered most to me, she kissed me, hugged me, and promised me that when the war was over, we’d always be together and she’d buy me candy to my heart’s content.

Mrs. S. had candy. Little Dzidzia saw it but the candy wasn’t for her. Sometimes, in secret from her mother and sister, Basia would give me her own candy. Oh! It was heavenly and I loved her so much for it. In general, I liked Basia a lot. She was very good to me. I didn’t like Mrs. S. and the younger daughter Zosia. I was terrified of them. At that point, I didn’t understand that they were risking their lives for me. I was a child, after all. But I was obedient. I followed all the do’s and don’ts. Only once did I do something of my own free will and I regretted it bitterly afterwards. It happened right after my return from Koziegłowy. I was still “spoilt” then. When I was left alone, I was bored. I peeked in a drawer and saw all sorts of… treasures. Lipsticks, powders, creams, mirrors! I had so much fun! I made myself up. I spilled some on the floor. Later I cleaned everything up the best way I could, but unfortunately the moment Mrs. S. came back home, she figured out what I’d done. Oh, the spanking I got!!! I can still feel it to this day. And I couldn’t cry—only into the cushion because someone could hear me. I didn’t touch the drawer again.

In the evenings, Mrs. S. was often visited by the Germans. They wouldn’t leave for hours. They drank and played cards. Typically, they sat in the kitchen at the table, which was in the middle (not the one underneath which I was sitting). Before they came, Mrs. S. crammed me into the wardrobe in the living room. I had to sit there quiet as a mouse, with a cushion by my mouth and follow the obvious orders: “don’t cough, don’t moan, don’t move.” I sat there minute after minute, hour after hour, in the dark and in fear, until they left.

It was even worse when “honored” guests visited and Mrs. S. saw them in the living room. I sat under the designated table in the kitchen. I was even more scared there because at any point, a German could enter the kitchen and as much as a deeper breath could give me away. Today, I think about how lucky I was that none of them came with a dog.

One time, when Marysia was visiting me, we heard an unexpected German stomping downstairs in the hallway (Mrs. S. lived on the second floor). In a jiffy Marysia and I are shoved into a tiny coal room which was just around the entry door to the apartment. They entered. We could hear loud merry voices while we nestled by the coal. Thank God! They won’t find us here. We pray silently and thank God. The moon and stars scattered across the cloudless sky can been seen from a small window. I can still see that full moon to this day. Marysia whispers into my ear: “Don’t be afraid Dzidziusia, they won’t come in here. Look, the moon and the stars are beautiful. Soon, when the war is over, we’ll look at them every night.”

The Germans didn’t leave until a late hour. Marysia didn’t want to risk going back home because it was curfew. To tell the truth, leaving my place in the evening was always risky. This time, however, Mrs. S. must have been in a good mood because she let her stay… and Marysia slept with me. Dear God, that night was so blissful for me! I slept curled up with Marysia, and I felt so happy and safe. From that moment on, when the Germans were going to come and sit in the living room, I’d hide in the coal room, and not under the table. I preferred that. I wasn’t as scared. At least I could breathe. This is how eleven long months passed, day in and out. Little Dzidzia either sat under the table, in the wardrobe, or in the coal room, hugged her little cushion and wandered in her thoughts. She thought about the sun, the moon, and the stars, which would shine for her as soon as the war was over. She thought about the candy that Marysia would buy her—also as soon as the war was over. She kept thinking about her mama and papa, whose faces had started to fade from her memory. She wondered where they were, if they were alive or if they’d come back for her? Were Marysia and Dzidzia going to survive? Wouldn’t the Germans find and kill us? Dear God! What’s that? Quick, under the table!

I entrusted all these thoughts to my little cushion. It was my confidant.  It  knew  about  everything.  It  was  my  closest,  only  friend. I played with it throughout the long, lonely days. Sometimes, it was my mama, at other times, I was the mama and it was my baby daughter. Sometimes it was a puppy, other times a kitty cat. Imagine, I never had a doll! Neither a small one nor a big one, neither a rag doll nor a pretty or ugly doll. It seemed like everyone forgot that there was such a thing as a doll for a little girl. How much it would have meant for little Dzidzia! But it was a horrible war and those were horrible times. Everyone was busy thinking of more important matters: survival and death. Everyone forgot about a doll for little Dzidzia. My papa, who returned after the war, gave me my first doll ever in August 1945.

What else? I don’t want to bore you. Let me say a few words about the last days of the war. The Russians were coming. The Luftwaffe factory was on fire. You could hear constant explosions, gunfire, and see flames from the window. There were rumors that before retreating, the Germans were going to blow up the railway bridge, which was near Mrs. S.’s apartment. It was only Marysia and me at home. We were mortified. Mrs. S. took her daughters and fled to a bunker at the other end of the city. She wouldn’t take me; she said there wasn’t enough room. She said: “My job was to keep her for the war. The war has ended.” And she left. We stayed behind. The Germans were still dragging people out of their homes to dig trenches. We huddled together. The explosions would rip up the silence.

Suddenly, standing at a distance from the window, we spotted two German gendarmes with a dog. They were heading towards our home. We could hear the thump of their steps on the stairs. They’re kicking and ramming the butts of their machine guns into the door. The dog is barking furiously. Any moment now, they’ll break the door down and that’s it. They’ll kill us right at the end of the war when liberation is around the corner. Marysia’s shaking, me too. I can hear my little heart pounding. Marysia grabs me and we kneel under the image of Virgin Mary. We’re whispering “Under Your Protection”… They left!! I feel dizzy and faint. I come to. Marysia is dressing me. She’s already dressed herself.

“Dzidzia! Let’s go. I know where Mrs. S. is. I’ll take you there. They’re good people. They won’t turn you away. You must live!” We’re going.

It’s a freezing January day. I have no boots, only high felt slippers. I’m terribly cold. I walk a little, at times Marysia is carrying me. They’re still shooting, we can still hear bombs going off. We walk past around two hundred bodies. Marysia says these are Germans. I think, that’s good, isn’t it? Finally, we reach our destination. Marysia was right. The good people, the Ulfiks, took me in. Marysia left— cried terribly, afraid that they were going to kill her. Mrs. Ulfik took me down to a huge basement. It was full of people sitting on benches by the wall or on the concrete floor. Basia put me in her lap. I spent the whole night pressed against her. She kept comforting me: “Don’t be afraid, it’s over, Marysia will be fine and she’ll come for you.”

And she did. The next morning, on January 20, 1945, Zawiercie was liberated. Freedom, at last. I remember people crying, screaming, kissing each other with joy. Mrs. S., her daughters, and I came back home. Marysia was waiting there. One more day and night at Mrs. S.’s. But not under the table! Marysia visited her family in Ogrodzieniec and the next day she came with her brother Staś. He brought a bicycle on which he walked me home to Ogrodzieniec. From that moment on, this was my new home. I lived there with Marysia, her mother, who I was supposed to call “Grandma,” Marysia’s brother Staś, and her sister Wanda.

That was the end of the nightmare of the war but the memories of it all live on in me. You can’t forget that. Many a night I’ve woken up in a cold sweat—because the Germans are coming, they’re deporting us, or we’re fleeing. Luckily, it’s only a dream. The war was over but for a long, long time I behaved as if it wasn’t. First of all, I couldn’t speak at a normal volume. I only whispered. At the sight of a stranger in the yard or a passer- by in the alley in front of the house, I immediately hid under the table or in the wardrobe. I behaved like a small, hounded, intimidated animal. Marysia was very concerned about me; she especially worried if I was ever going to speak normally.

Aside from Marysia, I owe a lot to Marysia’s brother, Staś. He was a wonderful, simple, kind man. He always found time and had infinite patience with me. He played with me and told me about forests, animals (he was a hunter), and plants. And he somehow managed to get me warm boots. They were invaluable. I could finally start going outside. Whenever he could, he’d bring a treat for “his Dzidziunia”—an apple, a pear, or a few nuts. These were delicacies at the time. I loved him very much. He was as kind to me as Marysia was.

The spring came. I was able to go out by myself and we went to the fields, but I still didn’t know how to play with other children. I could only play by myself. I talked to myself—as I used to with my little cushion. I still didn’t have a doll. I often pulled a stick, which Staś had carved for me, on a piece of rope. This was supposed to be my puppy.

It took me a long time to overcome my fear, and when I finally started trusting people and wanted to play with other kids, I was faced with another terrible surprise. The children wouldn’t play with me and called me a “kike”! It was a horrible, new, striking experience. The first time was the worst! But you can’t really get used to that. Over time, I stopped being ashamed of that, and I never concealed who I was! It’s easier to have a normal life this way.

Back to the subject, I had one defender among the children harass- ing me. He was a boy older than me from the house next door. His name was Staś N. and he was a hunchback—we had something in common. He’d always defend me and even when I had pneumonia, he found three wa- ter lilies somewhere and brought them to me! I can still see them. I was so proud and happy. Staś N. was the first love of the 5-year-old Dzidzia.

And now, I’ll say a few words about my family who survived the war. The Germans sent my mother and father to Auschwitz on the last transport when liquidating the ghetto in Zawiercie in August 1943. My mama perished very soon, after three months. They gassed her and burned her body on November 20, 1943. I have her “act of descent”—as the Nazis called itv—from the Auschwitz archive.

My father was stronger. He survived Auschwitz and the death march. At the end of that march, like a walking dead man, he reached Bavaria, where he and others were liberated by the Allies. I have his photograph taken there for the identification document. It’s horrible. Some German family showed him a lot of hospitality there. They provided him with medical care and slowly nourished him. In August 1945, as soon as he regained some of his strength, he returned to me and brought me my first longed-for dream doll!

I still remember all the details of the day when my dear father came back. I’ll never forget it until the day I die. It was a gorgeous, sunny August day. Marysia went to work in the morning. She worked in a brick factory. Before the war, it had belonged to my grandfather Żerykier. That day, Staś wasn’t at work. We were all repairing the roof of the barn, which had been damaged by a missile. I, of course, was on the roof. Suddenly, I saw Marysia enter the yard with some handsome man. She yelled: “Dzidzia!!!” and I replied: “PAPA!!!” and I climbed down the ladder like a crazy person straight into his arms. I don’t know how long we were hugging. I only remember that everyone around us was crying.

How did I know it was Papa? I couldn’t remember his face at all. It got blurry over those two years, but the bond of blood and hearts was stronger than the weak memory! This was the beginning of a great mutual love between father and  daughter,  a  love  reaching  beyond the grave. Unfortunately, I don’t remember the face of my mama, blessed be her memory. I only know her from the few photographs that I got from her girlhood friend when I first visited Israel in 1960. After returning from the camp, Papa found us an apartment and got a job. Soon, we lived together: Papa, Marysia, and I. My father knew very well how much Marysia meant to me and how much I loved her. She was the best mother for me. I couldn’t imagine my life without her. On some subconscious level, I kept worrying that she might leave us. My father loved me so much that he would never hurt me. In 1951, after my grandfather passed away, he married Marysia. They spent twenty- three happy years together until my father’s death in 1974.

I forgot to mention that the name Dzidzia stuck with me. To this day, my family and friends call me Dzidzia or Dzidka. My official name Danuta probably came from the transformation of Estusia into Danusia.

Several members of my previously very large family survived the war. On my father’s side in Russia, these were: my grandfather Dawid Żerykier and my father’s three brothers: Motek (later Mieczysław), Jakub (later Jan), and Izaak (who later changed his name to Ignac) with his wife Erna and son, Natan (later Tolek), who was ten years older than me. They returned to us from Siberia and Ural in 1947. My grandfather lived with us until he passed away in 1951.

Of all my uncles, I especially took to Ignac and Aunt Erna while their son Tolek was always the best, the most loving and loved brother for me. My father’s other brother, Matys, also survived the war. Right at the beginning of the war, he had been rounded up and sent for labor to Germany. Luckily for him, his family couldn’t afford to buy him out. After the war, he didn’t return to Poland but left for the United States. I’ve never seen him. On my mother’s side, her sister’s granddaughter, a young girl named Inka, survived Auschwitz. She left with her husband Jurek Wajsbrot for Israel in 1956. We always get together when I go to Israel.

My mama’s two nephews in Russia, Pinek and Berek Rotenberg, also survived. Soon after they came back and visited us in Zawiercie, they fled through the unofficial “green border” to get to Palestine. After a difficult journey, they reached their beloved homeland, Israel. They joined the Eilon kibbutz and together with other pioneers, by the sweat of their brows, they built the country, turning its arid rocky barren land into beautiful, fertile, green fields. These were wonderful, brave, and virtuous people! Both have passed away. I’m still in regular touch with Berek’s wife, Berta, who is just as brave, kind, and wise.

Mama’s other nephew in Russia, Marian (Moniek) Zajbert, who was thirty years older than me, survived as well. He lived in Warsaw. He died last year at the age of 95. I nursed him for the last two years of his life, after his wife had passed away. He didn’t have anyone else at that point. Considering the magnitude of misery and number of victims of the Holocaust, you might say that we were the lucky chosen ones. Quite a few of us survived, relatively speaking. All three of my father’s brothers, my beloved uncles, left Poland. In 1956, my dearest Uncle Ignaś with his whole family left. Tolek was already married to a stunning, blue-eyed, and kind- as-an-angel, Fryda, and they had a baby boy, Wiluś. It was a terrible blow for me because I loved them very much. They left right before my school- leaving matura exam. I couldn’t study and cried night after night.

Having arrived in Israel, they settled down in Bat Yam right by Tel Aviv. Mietek with Aunt Hela and their daughter Dorotka, who was ten years older than me, left for the United States after the antisemitic incidents in 1968. Uncle Janek with Aunt Helena and their daughter Iwona left for Sweden.

All my uncles and aunts are gone. Unfortunately, my dearest cousin Tolek also passed away. His wonderful wife Fryda is still like the closest sister to me and my husband. We love and respect each other. We also have close, familial relations with Dorotka from the States but we barely see her. The last time we got together must have been in 1995. As you can see, the whole family (aside from Marian Zajbert) has left Poland.

We stayed. In 1956 I was accepted at university. I earned my degree from  the  Medical  Department  at  the  Medical  Academy  in  Kraków. I specialize  in  neurology.  Right  now  I’m  retired  but  I  still  practice a little. In 1960—I was then in my third year of medical studies—my dear Uncle Ignaś and Tolek invited me over for the whole three months of the summer break and paid for my ticket. I went to Naples by train through Vienna, where I stayed at my father’s distant cousin’s. I sailed from Naples on a beautiful Israeli ship to Haifa, where my uncle and Tolek awaited me. We were all very, very happy. What a wonderful holiday that was! What an adventure for a young 20-year-old girl who was seeing the real, free, beautiful world for the first time.

I saw most of the country. I admired it. I enjoyed every moment. We took a trip with Tolek and my uncle to Eilat. We rode on a truck that had wooden benches put on the sides. If there was no room, you sat on the floor. The fee was very small—only a few dollars, and that was all we could afford at the time. It took us almost the entire day. The road was terrible: winding serpentines up and down. But what magnificent views! I thought I was dreaming. Back then, in Eilat there were only a handful of apartment buildings and… sand. We slept right by the sea, under the open sky. It was something beautiful, that view of the sun’s orb rising over the horizon! And later, a ride in a motorboat with a glass bottom and watching a fantastic, fabulously colorful coral reef. I kept asking Tolek to pinch me so I would know it wasn’t a dream.

Years later, I went back to the gorgeous, sprawling, vibrant Eilat several times. I stayed in an elegant hotel, but that Eilat was never as beautiful for me as that other one, the wild, pristine Eilat from forty-five years earlier. I visited my whole family. I hadn’t realized that my whole family and surely, my father, had a secret goal in my travel. As it turned out later, they hoped that I would like it so much there that I’d stay in Israel. Or that I would go back, complete my studies, and leave. This was my family’s secret. They wanted that and did everything to make that decision come from me.

But it never crossed my mind. After all, Marysia was here in Poland, and I would never leave her. And I don’t think that she would ever leave her family. Papa would surely go where I went. I also left behind my “beloved” in Poland—my current husband, Krzyś. I’d fallen in love with him around three months before going to Israel and I kept thinking about him there. I wrote and waited for his letters. When watching the most beautiful landscapes, I always thought how wonderful it would have been if we were there together. I came back. Saying goodby to my aunt and uncle, especially to Tolek, was horrible. It was as if I knew that we weren’t going to see each other for a very long time. Eleven years passed before we got together again at an arranged meeting in Romania.

It’s been nearly half a century, my whole adult life, since that time. And I don’t regret anything! My love prevailed. Krzyś and I got married a year and a half after graduation—in December 1964. I have a wonderful, kind and caring husband. I love and respect him, and so does my entire family. The feeling is mutual. In 1965, our daughter, our dear Mariolka, was born. What a precious girl! She’s always been very talented. She followed in the footsteps of her dad and studied in the Law Department of the Jagiellonian University.

Marysia lived to a ripe old age. She passed away at the age of 92. Unfortunately, in the last five years of her life she suffered from Alzheimer’s. She required more and more care around the clock. My dear husband and I provided it to her in our home. We were with her until her last breath. I could repay her a debt of life at least to a small degree.

For a very long time, Marysia wouldn’t hear of us requesting the “Medal of the Righteous” for her. She’d always say: “I saved you not for medals or money, but out of love.” Finally, as they started broadcasting the medal ceremonies more and more often, she agreed. In 1984, she was awarded the medal of “The Righteous Among the Nations” by Yad Vashem. She wasn’t able to travel to Israel and plant a tree. I did it on her behalf. I was granted official permission to go and I was issued a passport. At that time, Krzyś took her to Warsaw to collect the medal. She was so happy! And so were we.

And who would have thought? The family history has come full circle. Having completed her studies, on January 25, 1989, my beloved daughter left for Israel to visit her dear Uncle Tolek and Aunt Fryda. She’d known them well—we’d get together despite difficulties. And she stayed there!!! She sealed my identity! I always knew who I was, what my roots were, and I was never ashamed of it nor did I try to hide it, but her choice was an undeniable confirmation of that!

Mariolka didn’t speak a word of Hebrew. She enrolled in an ulpan. She mastered the language in a few months—that was a borderline miracle. She completed a three-month preparatory course for nostrification exams. In January 1990, she passed the exams that recognized her Polish degree and in 1991 she passed the Israeli bar examination. She worked and studied. Today, she has her own practice in Tel Aviv. In 1994 she got married. She has a very loving husband, my son-in-law—Eitan. He’s also a lawyer. It’s such a shame that Tolek didn’t live to see this. Mariolka and Eitan have two lovely, amazing daughters: 8-and-a-half-year-old Majeczka and 5-year-old Michasia, my dearest granddaughters. I love them more than anything. We see each other a lot. They are my sunshine and my joy.

Ulpan—a school for the intensive study of Hebrew—trans. note.

I dedicate this handful of memories about the Holocaust, about family and roots, to them—Majeczka and Michasia, so they will remember!