Maria Gaber-Wierny, born in 1929

On Romanian Papers

I have with me bitter memory
I have my smile that doesn’t lie
I know that nothing can crush me any more
In the days to come

Jonasz Kofta

I come from a poor Jewish family. I was born in Kraków in 1929. I lived with my parents on St. Wawrzyniec Street—in a room plus a kitchen, with a toilet that was shared. My mama, Salomea, took care of the house. My father, Eising Gaber, an upholsterer by profession, had his workshop on Floriańska Street, in a courtyard. He belonged to the Artisans’ Guild located at St. Anna Street. He was a member of the Polish Socialist Party (PPS).

Our home was always filled with laughter. I had two sisters and two brothers. My younger sister, Eleonora, attended a Hebrew gymnasium, which was closed the moment the Germans arrived in the city. The older one, Berta, finished a dressmakers’ school run by the nuns. My brother, Salo, graduated from the Industrial School in Bielsko-Biała, with the title of engineer. The other brother, Leo, worked as a bookkeeper in a cable factory. I attended the Maria Konopnicka Elementary School.

I finished three grades before the war broke out. In 1938 we moved to Ujejski Street. My brother was the official tenant, because the landlord did not want manual laborers as renters in his apartment building. My father moved his shop to 25 Smoleńsk Street.

Little by little, the war began to make itself felt, first in our home, then in our hearts. The first blow for my parents was the departure of my two brothers to the USSR. Leo and Salo escaped from the occupiers. We did not have to wait long for the next step. In 1940 we were thrown out of our apartment. The Germans established the ghetto. German ruffian soldiers, paying no heed to my mother’s cries and protests, threw us out of our apartment on Ujejski Street. At my mother’s question, “Where should we go?” the German answered with laughter, “Über die Weichsel” [Over the Vistula], that is, to the ghetto.

And so began our wanderings, which lasted until 1945. We were assisted by people with great hearts and an even greater will to fight. Our first shelter was the apartment of a certain German woman, a client of my father, who hid us for a night, concealing the fact from her husband and daughter. In the morning, my father rented a horse-drawn cart with which we moved our belongings to his shop at 25 Smoleńsk Street. There our family moved into a small, nine-square-meter space. Mother, an extremely orderly person and a good housekeeper, quickly adapted to the new conditions. On a small electric stove, she miraculously conjured up meals for the whole family.

Father, with his apprentice, Julian Harnik, continued to try to earn our keep. Times had changed, however, and so had the clients. Very often my father did not get any money for the work he did; he was only told, “Mr. Gaber, when my situation gets better, I’ll pay.” There was nothing to be done; the times were unjust, and the courts even more so. To this day I can picture my father in his workshop with a nail in his mouth and a hammer in his hand. He, the head of the family, knew he had to fight for its survival.

My parents did not speak Polish well, especially my mother. Their linguistic shortcomings were a result of their having spent their entire youth in Żadowa Czerniowce in Romania. This page from the past came in handy during the war, because my parents spoke the German language well. Their good knowledge of German made it possible for us to stay and live in Kraków for a time. Father had obtained Romanian documents for the whole family. A notary named Dobrzański arranged these documents for us, the so-called Bescheinigung, for a large sum of money.

This Bescheinigung [certificate] was used to certify that they were Romanian.

In 1941, after Romania’s capitulation, our papers became worthless, and therefore our existence became uncertain. The battle for day-to-day survival began. We did not want to go to the ghetto. The Germans threw us out of the workshop, leaving us with no roof over our heads. There were still people willing to help us, however.

My parents decided to go to the countryside. Father rented a horse-drawn cart, and with our modest belongings, we arrived in Bieńczyce. We decided to hide there. The Świder family welcomed us into their home, where we moved into a small room. Our host, Mr. Świder, was active in the resistance movement, together with his son. One night Świder’s son was wounded in a partisan action and, after suffering, died in his mother’s arms. We were not the only ones hiding in the village. We knew that our uncle’s family, the Holländers, were hiding with the Bieroń family. They could not stand the tension, however, and decided to return to Kraków, to the ghetto. From there they were deported to Auschwitz, and like others from my family, the Sinnreichs, they perished in the gas chambers.

Bieńczyce – now a section of Kraków. (Author’s note)
Auschwitz, located thirty-seven miles west of Kraków in the town of Oświęcim, began as a concentration camp for Polish political prisoners. Together with Auschwitz II-Birkenau, it became the largest concentration and death camp in Poland. More than a million people perished there, 90 percent of them Jews.

The ground was beginning to burn under our feet. The Germans began hunting down the resistance fighters and their families. The village was no longer a quiet harbor where we could spend the rest of our lives. We left the Świders. We did not want to endanger our friends, who had helped us so much. We firmly decided that we would not give in; we wanted to fight for our lives. We all wanted to live. We moved to another house, with the Bednarski family. These decent people also helped us. Mr. Bednarski was also a partisan, fighting the Germans in the forests. And the battle for survival began once again. We did not go out of the house, not to let anyone see us. The Germans hunted for Jews who had escaped from the ghetto and then subdued the partisans in Fort Krzesławicki. Father, despite the danger, went to Kraków, because we had to have something to live on.

He found work as an upholsterer with the Germans in a workshop on Oleandry Street. He started going to Kraków on foot; sometimes he managed to catch a ride on a cart. Asked at times by the Germans about his origins, he responded emphatically that he was Romanian. Fortunately, he did not have Semitic features, and besides, he spoke German fluently.

Finally, he had to stop going to work, because it was becoming ever more dangerous. We still had to have something to live on, however, so he began to do upholstery for local farmers, including Mayor Ciepiela. The mayor knew we were Jews. He helped us as best he could. His wife often gave us bread and other food. The Bednarskis shared their milk with us. We also tried to help Father. Mother made small flat cakes on the kitchen stove, my older sister sewed, and the younger, Eleonora, worked for the Germans as a secretary, because she spoke the language. She helped the locals in obtaining medical releases from work. People brought us food in appreciation.

I, as a thirteen-year-old, also wanted to help my family. I made necklaces and bracelets that I later sold. Nor did Mother let me forget about education. I studied Polish, mathematics, and German, because my provident mother had not forgotten to bring a few books, despite the turbulence of war. As a mere slip of a girl, I immersed myself in reading German novels and romances; I read A. Seghers and J. Courths-Mahler. I did not spurn J. W. Goethe, either. Father sneaked out books while working for the Germans. For instance, once he brought Drang nach Osten [Drive to the East] (_). After the war, these books were donated to a museum.

Drang nach Osten [Drive to the East] was Germany’s slogan for expansion to the east.

I remember one event as if it were today. Late one evening, a drunken German gendarme stormed into our home and began screaming at my father that he knew that there were Jewish girls there and that he would like to have a good time with them. Father, keeping cool, calmly replied that we were Romanians, not Jews, and that there were only young children in the house. My sisters, terrified, hid under the eiderdown. They were shaking all over with fear. I also lay in bed with mother, tightly clinging to her. It was then that I broke down for the first time. Upon seeing the soldier trip and fall into a bucket and then try to get out of it, I began to alternately laugh and cry, not normally. At a most unexpected moment, he fell asleep. In the morning, he walked out of the room as if he did not remember anything from the previous night. We did not go out of the house. At night I would wake up screaming.

One morning another incident took place. As I was heading for the privy, I heard the approaching motorcycle of a gendarme. Then I heard him scream, “Wo sind die Juden?” [Where are the Jews?] I ran into the room, trembling all over, and cried, “They want to catch us!” Alarmed, the woman sheltering us led us to a shed. There we slept, covered with hay. We did not know how long that lasted. Days and nights passed. I once again broke down. At last, we went out into the fresh air. How wonderful it was to feel once again the energizing fresh scent of freedom. Unfortunately, this did not last for long, because we had to go back into the Bednarski house.

My uneasy spirit did not let me stay indoors for long, however. The Osiadło family lived on the other side of the river with their children, Helenka and Julek. I often sneaked out of the house to visit my friend Helenka; her mother always treated me to whatever she had in the house. Being with Helenka and tending cows in the meadow were big attractions for me. Being a fifteen-year-old young lady, I was eager for new friendships. I sought companionship and partners for conversation.

I also met my first love. His name was Julek. He attended secret classes and seemed so wise. This was the first time I fell in love. Fortunately, war never kills these feelings. We used to meet by the river, dreaming that when the war would end, he would ask for my hand, we’d get married, have children, and live happily ever after. These were charming dreams, moments of escape from the grim reality. It could not last forever, however. One time my mother discovered us. She was looking for me, and when she saw us together, she was very upset and forbade me to meet with my boyfriend. It was painful, but I had to accept it. This is how my great, unfulfilled love came to an end.

One day my father found out that it was possible to be smuggled across the border to Hungary. A group of people arranged a meeting with a guide in Kraków. I convinced Father to take me with him, because I had not seen Kraków in a long time. I very much wanted to see my beloved city. We went to an apartment on Szpitalna Street, where we were to learn fully the plans for getting across the border. It turned out that the apartment was a trap.

We got caught. The Germans put us on a truck, together with the other people, and then drove us to Podgórze. We were thrown into barracks. I was scared. They tossed us some scraps of food. Every day a gendarme called out several people. We heard shots. Those people never came back.

Podgórze is the suburb of Kraków where the ghetto was located.

There were only Jews in the barracks. Three SS men watched over us. One was called Heindrich, another Kunde. The barracks were located in the center of the ghetto, near Józefińska Street. All the prisoners were slated for death. Every now and then an “action” would be conducted that would decrease the number of prisoners. Mama, having found out that we had been caught, wanted to free us at all costs. She searched for contacts.

SS – Schutzstaffel: Elite military unit of Nazi party that served as a special police force; also called “Black Shirts”.
An “action” was a forced roundup for deportation to concentration or death camps.

She reached the German woman who had sheltered us before, asking her for help. Mama had retained, for just such a dark moment, a golden brooch, with which the German woman was able to buy us out. Saved by this miracle, we went back to Bieńczyce. There are no words to describe the joy with which we were received at home.

Finally, the long-awaited day of liberation came. I can remember it as if it were today. Russian soldiers burst into our room. They asked where the Germans were and how far it was to Berlin. We threw ourselves on their necks with joy. I was sixteen then. My hair was arranged in two long braids. One Russian told my mother that when he returned from Berlin, he would come for me and marry me. I began crying and screaming that I did not want to leave Poland and that I did not want a Russian husband. Deep in my heart, however, I was proud that this young soldier had proposed to me and not to my older sisters.

Finally, the end of the war approached. We loaded our bundles and bid tearful good-byes, very happy, at the same time, to be going home. We rented a horse and driver and rode into Kraków full of euphoria, singing, “Poland has not yet perished.” We got to our apartment on Ujejski Street, from which we had been thrown out. A Volksdeutsche named Polak, who was living there, did not want to let us into our own apartment. In the end, after long deliberations, she finally agreed to part with one room and part of the kitchen. Without hesitation, my father went to Member of Parliament Drobner and asked to have the Polak family evicted. We regained the whole apartment. Father rented a workshop on Szpitalna Street, next door to the parish office of the Mariacki Church. The parish priest, Father Machaj, visited us every day.

“Poland has not yet perished” – the first line of the Polish national anthem.

I now began thinking about completing my education. Having finished three grades of elementary school, I enrolled in the Workers’ University Association. I attended the first grade of gymnasium, while my sister Eleonora was preparing for her “big” matriculation (___). Eager for knowledge, I myself finished three grades of gymnasium. Unfortunately, the cost of living became so high that I had to begin thinking about earning my keep. My brother, then director of a power plant, got me a job in the tool storehouse. I worked there for a year. My brother tried to convince me to continue my education—to finish high school and pursue higher education. But I preferred to work; I wanted to become independent. I worked as a secretary and a librarian.

Workers’ University Association – TUR, Towarzystwo Uniwersytetu Robotniczego, an organization affiliated with the Polish Socialist Party, which promoted education among workers.
“big” matriculation – matura: final examination of the secondary school years, a prerequisite for admission to a university..

I had to interrupt my work when my mother came down with Parkinson’s disease. I looked after her and our household. I was alone, because Eleonora had gotten married and moved to Silesia. Leo, Berta, and Salo, with his daughter, Lenoczka, had moved to Israel. I was then twenty-five, just the right age to be thinking about getting married. I had a boyfriend named Andrzej, a Catholic. We were developing very serious plans for our future life together. I visited his parents, who treated me like a future daughter-in-law.

However, I did not get topick my own fiancé. My father had other plans, which he quickly put into action. When I was twenty-seven a matchmaker came to visit him one day. He said he had an appropriate candidate to be my husband. He touted him as being wealthy, as having steady work in a consignment business in Silesia. He assured my father that I would live in prosperity and that my parents—both already of an advanced age—would also be cared for. We soon held the so-called Beschau, the official meeting where the future couple becomes acquainted. Samuel, my future husband, was eight years older than I. When I saw him for the first time, he seemed like a fatherly older gentleman. Next to him, I looked like a porcelain doll.

Everything was arranged. I was in great despair. I cried and threatened to run away, but I was not able to gather enough courage to do so. In the meantime, I met with Andrzej. He asked me to think it over, that I should not leave him. He said that in a marriage love counted above all else. I did not know how to oppose my father’s will.

Half a year later, the wedding took place in the synagogue. Everything was done according to old Jewish customs, including the mikvah [ritual bath]. It was quite an experience for me to enter the pool of water with only a kerchief placed on my head while a woman stood beside me reciting prayers. The wedding took place under a canopy. I wore a white dress and a veil over my head. According to tradition, the groom broke a glass for good luck.

My husband, Samuel, lived with his mother, a woman devout to excess, with old, conservative, views. I could not go to Bytom to live with Samuel because of my mother’s illness. I insisted that he move and work in Kraków, to share the good and the bad days with me. My husband did not want to hear about this; he came only on Saturdays and Sundays. Unable to tolerate the situation, I decided to go to Bytom to talk things over with Samuel.

When I arrived, I encountered a startling surprise. It turned out that my husband had a lover. This first blow was a very difficult experience for me. But fate did not let me catch a breath, because the next day I witnessed a conversation between my husband and my mother-in-law. They spoke in Yiddish, not suspecting that I could understand every word. My mother-in- law was reproaching Samuel that I had not brought anything in as a dowry and that my father had not even paid the matchmaker. This was already too much. I could not stand it and said that I was going back to Kraków to my parents and would not set foot there again. His pleas did no good. I was desperate. I returned home. I was then already pregnant.

Father understood that this marriage was a big mistake and suffered together with me. But my parents were happy that I was with them and that they were going to have a grandchild. My husband continued to visit on Saturdays and Sundays. I soon gave birth to my son. I was happy, but not for long . . . My husband wanted my son to be circumcised. Lying in my bed, I was totally in despair. I was afraid that my child would suffer. I did not want to hear about it. However, everything took place according to the ritual. My child was taken from me. I could hear Adam’s cries from the other room. This was one more reason to hate my husband. After it was over, the crying child was brought back to me for feeding.

I brought up my son, taking care of my elderly parents at the same time. Father was already becoming ill and had to stop working. Berta, my sister, knowing of our situation, sent us letters inviting us to Israel. She wrote to my father that he and Mama would live in a luxurious home for the elderly, where he would have excellent care. Father tore up the letters, stubbornly saying he would not go anywhere, that he was a Pole and that he wanted to work here and die here. In 1962 Father died of cancer. He left some savings, which were just enough for the burial.

I understood that with his death I had lost my best protector and that nobody would shield me now. Three months later, tragedy struck again. My mother died. My sister, Lusia [Eleanora], came with her family to help me.

We continued to run Father’s workshop with an apprentice, but a few months later, the workshop was taken away from me, because I did not have a master craftsman’s diploma. I took on work that I could do at home. I glued boxes at home and then folded them. I had to produce a prescribed quota to be eligible for support payments for my child. I glued four to five thousand boxes a day. Little Adam was then attending first grade. I sat up until late at night to do the gluing. My child often helped me in this. I then carried these packages down from the fourth floor. This is how I acquired back problems.

My husband demanded a divorce and wanted to leave for Israel with our son. We were divorced in 1969, but my son did not leave but stayed with me. I went into a deep depression. I was troubled for many years by recurrences of this illness. Hence, my frequent stays in psychiatric hospitals—until 1995. I was diagnosed with mixed psychosis, depressive- apathetic syndrome and bipolar affective disease. My beloved son’s constant visits and his concerned looks gave me the will to fight, helped me to regain my health. My love for my son helped me survive this most difficult period. My son finished his university studies, got married, and now has a small son. I have friends in the Association of Children of the Holocaust, to which I have belonged for several years.

At home I encounter a sweet loneliness. However, there are also my grandson’s visits on Sunday; together we play Wheel of Fortune and recite poems. In addition, I listen to my beloved music and write song lyrics and poems. And that’s my life… Is it not beautiful? I ask myself that question. Every day I get up with a little anxiety; I wish for that day to also be as beautiful. I pray to God, I ask for my life not to change.

My Guardian Angel
When being ordinary is the greatest virtue
And normality takes on the shape of a uniform
Stand near me, like a shadow
Stand near me, like a shadow.
Jonasz Kofta