Jerzy Ślęzak, born in 1933

From a Jewish mother…

I was born on November 9, 1933, in Częstochowa to a mixed marriage. My father was Polish. My mother, née Estera Landau, is still alive. The story of my parents from the early 1930s was famous in all of Częstochowa and, to my mind, it deserves to be told in more detail.

Here it is: my father-to-be worked in the factory of his future father- in-law. He was an outstanding worker. This earned him the complete trust of his employer. That’s why it was one of his duties (aside from professional obligations) to frequently walk my future mother to and from school. His job was to keep her safe en route (my father was seven years older than my mother). The small factory where my father worked as a grinder was located in the same courtyard where my mother lived with her parents and siblings. From the windows of her bedroom, my mother could see her future husband working at the machine. I know from their stories that they would often exchange meaningful looks.

After several years of this courtship, my mother secretly fled her family home and found shelter at the Jasna Góra convent where nuns primed her for baptism and First Communion. It was there that my parents got married (in great secrecy) in 1932. My mother’s elopement was most tragic for her parents and the whole family (I learned about this in more detail many, many years later). Having a good relationship with the police, her father continued to search for her intensely.

After getting married, my parents lived at the home of my father’s parents, who completely accepted this relationship. My father lost his job. What’s more, my mother’s father was making sure he wouldn’t find one elsewhere. It was hard for them to make ends meet: they rented their own (very modest) place and continued to just scrape by. My mother’s parents never forgave her. She was dead to them. Later, they lost their lives in Treblinka along with my mother’s three sisters. Only my mother’s brother survived.

My father finally found a job at a Stradom linen factory in Częstochowa, after which their lives and mine improved a little. Despite the extremely modest conditions and many hardships, my parents were happy together until the end (my father died in 1988) and they were one of the most loving couples I’ve ever known.

In 1939 my sister was born. We were living in a workers’ district in Stradom. Before the war broke out, my father, concerned about his family’s safety, rented a one-room wooden cabin on the outskirts of Częstochowa, on a street that hadn’t been put on the city plan yet.

The family that took us in during the war was perfectly aware of what they were risking for hiding us. We weren’t registered. My mother didn’t have a Kennkarte. We had no food stamps. Only my father was registered. He continued to work in Stradom and had food stamps. Not only the street but also the neighborhood knew about our existence.

I would like to make it very clear that we survived the occupation thanks to our wonderful neighbors, who would always warn us if there were roundups nearby. We would then go down to a concealed basement. I must stress that we lived near the border of the General Government and the Reich, not far from the barracks where the Germans were stationed; they would often perform drills nearby.

It was the beginning of the 1940/41 school year and my parents weren’t sure what to do with me. Should they send me to school or not? As I mentioned, a lot of people knew about our existence. The decision was tough. Both options were bad. After long deliberations, my parents decided that I would attend school. The school faculty and most of my classmates knew of my descent. At home, I was constantly reminded that I shouldn’t get into fights or be rude; I always had to make concessions and accommodate others. I was a very good student. I had to go straight from school or church back home. It was difficult for a 7-year-old boy, but I understood that I had to do it if I wanted my family and me to survive—I was aware of that.

One time, though, I “lost it” and on my way back from church, by the barracks, I got into a fight with my schoolmate. We scuffled and exchanged blows, and then we walked side by side in silence. When we were very close to a German guard, my friend grabbed my hand, yelling: “Hier! Hier Jude!” The German heard it but didn’t react.

I went back home and told everything to my parents. I was punished and my father went to this boy’s parents to inform them about it. I still see him today and we (only) say “hi.” For obvious reasons, after I was back from school, if my parents didn’t allow me to play outside, I couldn’t leave the house. I was under the constant supervision of my parents.

Throughout the occupation, fear and hunger were forever present in my family’s life. My father got a bowl of soup at work and a piece of bread, which he brought home. Unlike others, he couldn’t steal nice flax yarn, thread, or fabric from work, because if he had been caught, it would have meant death for us.

As I mentioned before, we were living near the border with the Reich and my slightly older friends would cross the “green border,” smuggling flour, butter, meat, and sugar. I, of course, couldn’t take part. During one of those outings, one of the participants was caught and locked in the basement of the crossing point. His mother was informed about it and she (our neighbor) went to the station commandant and told him that in exchange for releasing her son, she would give up the address of a Jewish family. Coincidentally, this commandant would sometimes pay visits to our other neighbors and wanted to let us know that such a report had been made. If he wasn’t going to act on it, the woman would inform the Gestapo and he would be sent to the Eastern front, which mean a death sentence for him. We had to run. When we were informed about it, we were gripped by fear. What to do? Where to run? Who would take us in? My parents decided to stay. Come what may. For the second time, a German showed a human face. I was in third grade at the time.

In the meantime, our school was moved to another district of Częstochowa. My class had lessons in a low one-room building, a so-called rattrap (the ceiling was supported with wooden poles and was located at the back of the main building of the school). During one class, the teacher called on me, saying, “Jurek, go get chalk from the office.” (It was about thirty meters away). When I was leaving the classroom, I saw a car and soldiers in black uniforms. I thought: “They’ve come for me.” On my way, I met a girl I knew and I said to her, “Terenia, tell my parents I was taken.” I didn’t think at the time that the same thing would happen to my entire family. I entered the office and saw two of the heavies sitting there. I said I was sent for chalk. The secretary asked me why I was so pale, and I said I hadn’t been feeling well since that morning. I returned to the classroom with the chalk. It turned out that the Germans’ visit was prompted by rumors that a prewar banner was concealed on the school premises (which was true), but it wasn’t found.

As I mentioned earlier, in these horrible times of my childhood, I had to live and move as told by my parents: home, school, church, home. No stopping anywhere, no visits at my friends’, etc. One time, when I was leaving church (in the same neighborhood), I was approached by a strange lady. “Come with me,” she said. I turned pale and thought the worst. I wanted to run. She saw my anxiety and calmed me down, saying that she was taking me for lunch, and she gave me a hug—that made me feel more relaxed. I sat at a table and for the first time in three years of hunger, I was having chicken soup with meat! When I was full and thanked her, the lady offered me delicious sweet rolls. I said that my hungry little sister was at home, and the lady told me to take a bunch of rolls with me.

On January 16, 1945, when the liberation was so close, our neighbor, Mrs. Szewczyk, came to us and told my mom to take us (my dad was at work) to their brick house, because any bullet would go right through the walls of our cabin. When we were there, my toddler sister remembered that she had left her only rag doll behind. So I went back with her to our place and as we were coming back with the doll, we came across a German soldier in a shirt without his uniform jacket on, running away. He held us at gunpoint. He didn’t shoot. There were many, many more similar events. It’s impossible to list them all.

These years of hunger and fear, or perhaps fear and hunger, dragged on mercilessly. That’s why I will never forget the words of the dear departed Arnold Mostowicz, who told us at one of the meetings of “Children of the Holocaust”: “You were robbed not of five, but five hundred years of your childhood.” I will never forget liberation day. Finally, no more fear! Finally, free! We were still supporting ourselves with what my father made. My mom didn’t work. She also never made claims on the property of her parents. She believed that after what she’d done, she had no moral right to it.

Looking back, I think that one of the key factors which helped us survive was the fact that we lived in abject poverty. We dressed in worn- out, frequently mended, clothes. I don’t know if we wouldn’t have been betrayed if we had been more well off.

To finish off my recollections, I’d like to add that I’ve been happily married since 1953. In 1954, our daughter  was  born,  with  whom  we are still very close. We have three grandkids and two great grandkids. My only worry (of course, aside from old age and sickness) is the lack of tolerance, fear for future generations, and people shrugging off the revival of various forms of nationalism, not to mention, the increasing division between the poor and the rich.