Krysia Read online

  September 1, 1939, started just like any other day for nine-year-old Krysia Mihulka. Her father left for work, and her mother went out on some errands. Krysia and her brother walked to the park with their nanny, Mila. Suddenly, a loud explosion reverberated in the air.

  “Bombs, bombs!” someone shouted.

  “Boże, zlituj się! God have mercy!”

  As German troops and bombs descended upon Poland, Krysia struggled to make sense of the wailing sirens, hushed adult conversations, and tearful faces of everyone around her. Within just days, the peaceful childhood she had known would disappear forever.

  Krysia tells the story of one Polish girl’s harrowing experiences during World War II as her beloved father was forced into hiding, a Soviet soldier’s family took over her house, and finally as she and her mother and brother were forced at gunpoint from their once happy home and deported to a remote Soviet work farm in Kazakhstan.

  Through vivid and stirring recollections Mihulka details their deplorable conditions—often near freezing in their barrack buried under mounds of snow, enduring starvation and illness, and witnessing death. But she also recalls moments of hope and tenderness as she, her mother, her brother, and other deportees drew close together, helped one another, and even held small celebrations in captivity. Throughout, the strength, courage, and kindness of Krysia’s mother, Zofia, saw them through until they finally found freedom.

  Copyright © 2017 by Christine Tomerson and Krystyna Poray Goddu

  All rights reserved

  Published by Chicago Review Press Incorporated

  814 North Franklin Street

  Chicago, Illinois 60610

  ISBN 978-1-61373-441-4

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Mihulka, Krystyna, 1930- author. | Goddu, Krystyna Poray, co-author.

  Title: Krysia : a Polish girl’s stolen childhood during World War II / Krystyna Mihulka with Krystyna Poray Goddu.

  Description: Chicago, Illinois : Chicago Review Press, 2017. | Audience: Ages 10 to 13.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016016685 (print) | LCCN 2016023843 (ebook) | ISBN 9781613734414 (cloth : alkaline paper) | ISBN 9781613734421 (pdf) | ISBN 9781613734445 (epub) | ISBN 9781613734438 ( kindle)

  Subjects: LCSH: Mihulka, Krystyna, 1930—Childhood and youth—Juvenile literature. | Mihulka, Krystyna, 1930—Family—Juvenile literature. | World War, 1939-1945—Personal narratives, Polish—Juvenile literature. | Girls—Poland—Lwów—Biography—Juvenile literature. | Lwów (Poland)—Biography—Juvenile literature. | World War, 1914-1918—Deportations from Poland—Juvenile literature. | World War, 1939-1945—Prisoners and prisons, Soviet—Juvenile literature. | Collective farms—Kazakhstan—History—20th century—Juvenile literature. | Forced labor—Kazakhstan—History—20th century—Juvenile literature. | World War, 1939-1945—Refugees—Juvenile literature. | BISAC: JUVENILE NONFICTION / Biography & Autobiography / Women. | JUVENILE NONFICTION / Biography & Autobiography / Historical. | JUVENILE NONFICTION / History / Europe.

  Classification: LCC D811.5 .M442 2017 (print) | LCC D811.5 (ebook) | DDC 940.53/4779 [B] — dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016016685

  Interior design: Sarah Olson

  Interior map: Chris Erichsen

  Printed in the United States of America

  5 4 3 2 1

  In memory of my mother, Zofia Mihulka (1902–1995), and my father, Andrzej Mihulka (1899–1944)

  —K.M.

  In memory of Janina Balicka (1924–1942) and Zofia M. Biernacki-Poray (1923–2016)

  —K.P.G.

  Contents

  Map: Krysia’s Journey (1940–1942)

  A Polish Pronunciation and Vocabulary Guide

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  PART I: THE END OF LIFE AS WE KNEW IT

  1 Hints of Impending War

  2 The Last Autumn of Peace

  3 Strangers in the Sky

  4 Life Under Russian Occupation

  5 Shadows in the Night

  PART II: JOURNEY INTO CAPTIVITY

  6 Traveling by Cattle Car

  7 Traveling by Oxcart

  PART III: LIFE IN CAPTIVITY

  8 Settling In

  9 Strange Happenings at Night

  10 Enduring the Winter

  11 Spring and Summer Surprises

  PART IV: FLIGHT TO FREEDOM

  12 Reunion and Departure

  13 A Seemingly Endless Wait

  14 The Trans-Siberian Train Journey

  15 Tragedy Strikes Home

  16 Setting Sail for Freedom at Last

  Afterword

  Epilogue

  A Guide to Geographical Names

  Acknowledgments

  A Polish Pronunciation and Vocabulary Guide

  The Polish language has different pronunciation rules from those of the English language. For example, w is pronounced “v” and the si and sz combinations are both pronounced “sh,” while cz is pronounced “ch.” In Polish the c in ch is silent. The letter c is always soft, like in celery. The letter y is pronounced like a short i, as in kitten, while the letter i is pronounced like a long e, as in tree. Below is a guide to pronouncing the Polish words and names that appear in this book, and definitions for the Polish words and phrases. Another point to note is that when Polish people address each other, the ending of the name changes to u. You will notice in the book that when I speak to my mother or father, I call them “Mamusiu” or “Tatusiu” and they call me “Krysiu.”

  Babcia (Bab-cha)—Grandmother

  Boże, zlituj się (Bo-zhe, zlee-tuy-shewn)—God, have mercy

  Cicha noc (Chee-ha noc)—Silent night

  Ciocia (Cho-cha)—Aunt

  Danusia (Da-noo-sha)

  Do widzenia (Do veed-zenya)—Good-bye (see you soon)

  Dobrze (Dob-zhe)—Okay Drochobycz (Dro-ho-bich)

  Dziękuję bardzo (Dzhen-koo-ye bardzho)—Thank you very much

  Dzień dobry (Dzhen do-bry)—Good day, or good morning

  Ewa (Eva)

  Graźyna (Gra-zhi-na)

  Janek (Yah-nek)

  Jędruś (Yen-droosh)

  Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła pòki my źyjemy (Yesh-che Pol-ska nee-eh zgee-ne-la pu-kee my zhi-ye-my)—Poland is not lost so long as we still live

  Krysia (Kri-sha, like Tricia with a k)

  Lećmy do domu (Lech my do domu)—Let’s rush home

  Ludwik (Lood-veek)

  Lusia (Loo-sha)

  Lwów (Lvoov)

  Mamusia (Ma-moo-sha)—Mommy

  Marysia (Ma-ri-sha)

  Mila (Mee-la)

  Na zdrowie (Na zdrov-ye)—To your/our health

  Nie (Nee-eh)—No

  Nie bójcie się (Nee-eh boy-che shewn)—Don’t be afraid

  Opłatek (O-pla-tik)—Blessed wafer

  Pan (Pan)—Mr. (polite form of addressing an adult man)

  Pani (Panee)—Miss or Mrs. (polite form of addressing an adult woman)

  Pomoc (Po-moc)—Help

  Proszę wychodzić (Pro-she vy-hodzh-eech)—Please come out

  Starucha (Sta-ru-ha)—Old lady

  Szybko (Shib-ko)—Hurry

  Tak (Tahk)—Yes

  Tatuś (Ta-toosh)—Daddy

  Tocha (To-ha)

  Wedel (Ve-del)

  Wesołych Swiąt (Ve-so-wyh Shvee-ont)—Happy Holidays (said only at Christmas)

  Władzio (Vla-dzho)

  Wujcio (Vuy-cho)—Uncle

  Wy mordercy (Vi mor-der-tsy)—You murderers

  Zaczekać (Za-che-kach)—Wait

  Źegnajcie (Zheg-nye-chee)—Good-bye (farewell)

  Zosia (Zo-sha)

  Author’s Note

  To write or not to write was the question I asked myself before starting my me
moirs. Did I want to bring back the past that I had tried so hard to erase from my memory for so many years? Did I want to relive all the painful events of my life?

  My son told me, “Mom, the war is over—live in the present.”

  But my daughter said, “Please, Mom, I want to know about you. I want to preserve your writings for my children so that they know where their grandmother came from and why she is here in America.”

  I gathered up enough courage to sign up for a memoir-writing class at my local college. I didn’t know what to expect. I wrote my first story like a diary. Dates and historical facts were important, but anyone could find those in history books. While all of my stories are historically accurate, I realized that I had to write about my feelings, impressions, fears, and joys of growing up as a prisoner on the steppes (dry, level grasslands) of Kazakhstan and as a refugee in the mountains and deserts of Persia and the jungles of Africa.

  Memories flooded back before my eyes. I had to give them some coherence and shape.

  Someone once asked me, “Did you keep a diary? How could you remember everything so well?”

  I replied, “Those events were chiseled into my memory, and no matter how much I tried, I could never forget them.”

  Many times I was ready to give up. Recalling certain incidents was too painful, but, with tears rolling down my cheeks, I persevered.

  As I wrote, many things became clear to me that I had not understood as a child. I saw that my mother—with her incredible strength, courage, determination, love, kindness, and, most of all, great sense of humor in the face of challenges and tragedies—was an inspiration to those who knew her. It was only through writing my stories that I realized how much she had done for my brother and me, and how many times her sacrifices saved our lives. She taught us that keeping faith and hope for the future can overcome despair and helplessness. Those who survived the war and overcame the obstacles leading to freedom emerged stronger, even though the emotional scars were hard to heal.

  I decided to tell my story because it is not mine alone. It is the story of thousands of people who lost their homes and loved ones during the Second World War and were deported to Russia under the darkness of the night. It is a story that many historians refused to acknowledge, and that the Soviets tried to deny for many years.

  Toward the end of my writing, I understood that I had a responsibility to keep those memories alive. Perhaps the legacy of my words will help keep history from repeating itself.

  Prologue

  Everybody calls me Krysia, which is the usual Polish nickname for Krystyna. I love my name—not because of how it sounds, but because it held such a happy memory for my parents.

  My mother and father met at a ball in 1927. They danced the popular mazurka to a song called “Ostatni mazur” (“The Last Mazur”) about a soldier asking a young girl named Krysia for one last dance before he goes off to war. “Pretty Krysia,” go the words, “cease your weeping / Let us dance the mazur!” My parents fell in love that evening, dancing to that song. They married, and when I was born, on August 26, 1930, my father named me Krysia.

  When I was a toddler, if I was crying, my father would pick me up and bounce me on his shoulder, singing, “Pretty Krysia, cease your weeping. Let us dance the mazurka!” I would laugh and clap my hands. When I grew older, he and I would dance together, hopping around the room. I learned the steps to the mazurka very early in my life.

  My parents, Zofia and Andrzej Mihulka, were married in the late 1920s.

  Until I was nine and a half years old, I lived with my parents and my little brother, Antek, in the city of Lwów, then in southeastern Poland. I was not always very nice to my brother. It’s not that I wouldn’t play with him; I tried, but he was four years younger than me and too little to listen or understand anything. When I wanted him to act in plays with me (I loved to put on plays), he wouldn’t cooperate. So I often got mad at him.

  My father was the chief justice of an appellate court—the youngest judge to hold such a high position in Poland. My mother had degrees in chemistry and philosophy and even went to medical school for two years. She enjoyed helping people and wanted to become a doctor, but her father hadn’t allowed it. He loved her so much, he explained, that he was afraid she would catch a disease and die. Since he was paying for her studies, she had to obey him.

  Our home was one in a row of houses attached to each other, with no gardens in front, just flowerpots at the entrances. The garden was at the back of each house. The bedrooms were upstairs, and downstairs were the living room, dining room, kitchen, and study.

  When I was growing up Lwów was a city of more than 300,000 people. It was in the part of Poland that had been under Austrian occupation for 100 years before gaining its independence in 1918. Because of that, it had a distinct Austrian character; even the parks were fenced with elaborate stone carvings similar to the ones in Austria’s capital city, Vienna. When we lived there, the main street, Leon Sapieha, was lined with all kinds of shops: clothing shops, china shops, and lots of bakeries. The largest bakery, the Wedel Café, had an indoor and an outdoor café and served mouthwatering French and Viennese pastries. My favorites were the chocolate éclairs—flaky pastries filled with creamy, delicious custard.

  My brother, Antek, was four years younger than me.

  The Wedel Café was always full of gossiping friends. When I was eight years old the main topic was a man named Adolf Hitler. We heard Hitler’s speeches on the radio every day. I hated hearing his voice—he was always shouting in a foreign language and sounded very angry. My mother told me he was speaking German, but I didn’t know German, so I couldn’t understand him. I did take French lessons from a private tutor who came once a week. I wasn’t a very good student, because I only wanted to speak Polish. I remember seeing a photo of the two English princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret, in a magazine. Even though they didn’t have any crowns and didn’t look anything like the princesses in fairy tales, I was very interested in them because they were just about my age. But if I ever met them, I thought, I wouldn’t even be able to talk to them, because they spoke English.

  “Will I ever take English lessons?” I asked my mother.

  “No, you’ll never need to speak English,” she answered. “As long as you can speak French and German, you can travel all over Europe. England is an island, and it’s so far away.”

  I believed her. My mother was right about most things. Neither of us had any way of knowing how our lives would change or that, for most of my life, English would be my primary language.

  PART I

  The End of Life as We Knew It

  1

  Hints of Impending War

  It was the morning of March 12, 1938. I was seven and a half years old and eating breakfast with my family. Suddenly the music on the radio stopped and the announcer said, “Hitler has marched into Austria.”

  Both of my parents’ faces fell.

  “Tatusiu,” I asked, “Is Hitler coming to Poland?”

  “No, Krysiu, don’t worry,” my father answered, looking at my mother. I could tell that they didn’t want to talk about it in front of me.

  I picked up my lunch, kissed them each good-bye, and walked out to meet two of my friends, Marysia and Graźyna, for the short walk to school together.

  My school, named Marii Magdalena, was only three blocks away, and when the weather was nice we always walked. Today the scent of tulips, violets, and daffodils from the street vendors’ stalls drifted pleasantly through the air, sending the sweet promise of spring’s arrival after a long winter. In the distance, against the blue sky, the Wysoki Zamek (Tall Castle) towered above the city. Centuries ago a fortress had been built there to defend the city. Now its ruins were a tourist attraction. In winter we pulled our little wooden sleds up to the castle and bounced down the hill.

  I hated Marii Magdalena as much as I loved Lwów. The school was an old gray two-story building, with classrooms off the long corridors. Downstairs there was a recreatio
n hall where we had morning prayers, assemblies, and, occasionally, school plays. Not only did I find school boring—except for gym class, where we had to climb ladders, which was terrifying—but I was also scared of the principal: short, stout Pani Morska, whose face reminded me of a bulldog. Her piercing pale-green eyes, hidden behind gray-rimmed glasses, took in every detail. Despite her unimpressive figure, she exerted a dictatorial air of authority. I tried to avoid her, but when I did pass her and had to say “Dzień dobry. Good day,” my knees always started to shake. She would just stare at me. I never saw her smile.

  “Why do you think she looks so mean?” I asked Marysia.

  “I heard my mother tell my father that she’s like that because she’s an old maid.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  I enjoyed walking the streets of Lwów, sometimes with my father and Antek, sometimes with my mother and my aunts.

  “Maybe she’s angry because she didn’t find a husband.”

  “How do you find a husband?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “My mother met my father at a ball, so I guess nobody ever asked Pani Morska to dance.”

  We lined up in the hallway as usual, before dispersing to our classrooms, but today a tall young man, wearing a very serious expression, stood next to Pani Morska and the teachers.

  “Let me introduce Adam Kowalski from the Civil Defense organization,” Pani Morska announced. “He is here to lecture us about the drills we will be having from time to time, in case of emergency.”

  Then Pan Kowalski spoke: “When you hear a siren, leave your classrooms immediately and run as fast as you can to trenches that will be dug in the field behind the school building. You will need to have masks to put over your faces in case of gas poisoning. Ask your parents to make masks for you. They should use gauze and cotton with elastic to hold it on around your head. When you reach the trenches, lie flat with your faces down until you are told to go back to school. Do not panic. Listen to your teachers’ instructions. We hope that Hitler will not invade Poland, but we have to be prepared.”