Krysia Page 3

  I stood petrified, my heart pounding.

  My mother walked in. “Don’t look out anymore. Just pray and go to sleep.”

  I couldn’t sleep. The noises continued, and the fear would not leave me.

  I wondered, What will happen next?

  4

  Life Under Russian Occupation

  The Russians took over the radio. They announced that they had come as friends, to save us from the Germans. They sounded like they expected us to be grateful. But the only people who were happy about the Russians being in Poland were the Polish Communists, who offered their services to help them.

  My mother’s sister Stefa lived in Lwów, too, with her husband, Władzio, and her two daughters, Zosia and Nina. During our family gatherings I often listened to Wujcio Władzio’s stories about being taken prisoner by the Russians during the First World War. He would describe what life was like during the three years he was held captive in Siberia and how he escaped to Poland by hiding on freight and cattle trains. I was fascinated by his stories and remembered most of them.

  One day soon after the Russians invaded, Ciocia Stefa came over, crying. She said, “Władzio does not want to get out of bed. He cries like a baby and tells us that he sees us all in Siberia. Please come and talk some sense into him.” My mother agreed to go talk to my uncle and told me to come with her. We left Antek home with Mila.

  When we got there my uncle was still in bed, just like my aunt had said. “What’s wrong with you?” My mother asked him. “So far the Russians are behaving very well toward us. Isn’t it better that they are here, instead of the Germans?”

  We were very close with the family of my mother’s sister Stefa, seen here on a family vacation with her husband, Władzio, and my two older cousins, Zosia (right, in white) and Nina.

  “You don’t know them!” my uncle replied. “Wait a little longer and you will see what they are like. They will destroy us. Under Communism, everything belongs to the state. We will not be permitted to own anything. Even our souls will belong to them, as they will not allow us to worship and will turn our churches into stables for horses.”

  The discussion continued, but I lost interest. I walked out onto the bedroom balcony that overlooked the garden at the back of the house. In the adjoining garden, I saw two of my school friends. The balcony’s decorative railings were too high for me to lean over, and I wanted to talk to my friends. I pushed my head through the narrow opening between the two iron rods.

  “Ewa, Danusia, I’m here visiting my uncle,” I shouted over to them. “Can you come over to my house tomorrow to play?”

  “We’ll ask our mothers and let you know,” they called back.

  Then I heard my mother’s voice: “Come, Krysiu. We’re going home now.”

  “In a minute, Mamusiu.” I tried to pull my head out from between the railings, but couldn’t. I panicked.

  “Help!” I screamed. “Get me out of here!”

  My mother and my aunt rushed out to the balcony. They tried to pull my head out, but to no avail. The railings held me in a tight grip.

  “What shall we do?” wailed my mother. “Shall we call somebody to cut the railings?”

  “Calm down,” replied Ciocia Stefa. “I’ll get some cream, or even lard if necessary.” She disappeared for a moment, and when she came back she smeared some cream on my neck, my ears, and the railings. She and my mother took turns massaging me until they could pull out one ear. Then they worked on the second one, and when it slipped out, the rest of my head was free.

  “How on earth did you manage to get your head in there in the first place?” scolded my mother.

  “I don’t know. I won’t do it again. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  After my unfortunate adventure, which left me with a stiff neck and purple bruises, my mother and I headed home, leaving my uncle wallowing in his despair.

  The government offices and schools were closed. A few small shops remained open, but after the German bombing and fighting around the city, there was not much left for sale.

  One day the Russians announced that the judicial and police services had to be restored. They asked everybody to report to work. My father went to court. A short time later he was back. He looked rushed and upset.

  “I was walking down the long entrance hall,” he told us, “and as I was about to enter the courtroom, Ludwik, the janitor, stopped me and said, ‘Do not go in—you will not come out.’ I turned around and left as fast as I could. I have to go into hiding. I am on the wanted list.”

  My mother began to cry.

  My father threw some clothing into a small suitcase and embraced each of us. “I will come to see you from time to time,” he promised. And then he was gone.

  My father was of medium height, with light-green eyes and brown hair and a kind smile that attracted others to him. He had helped many people find jobs, including Ludwik, the janitor who warned him of the danger he was in that day.

  We learned later, through Wujcio Władzio—who did not go to court as instructed—that the five judges and six lawyers who did go into the courtroom that morning had been arrested, and had disappeared. He said they were probably sent to Siberia, or executed. Later, many more lawyers, policemen, and army officers were rounded up and taken away.

  Wujcio Władzio had been right. The Russians were starting to show their true faces.

  The schools reopened, too. I was in fourth grade, but my mother didn’t let me go to school. I wondered why, but was afraid to ask. I had a feeling that it had something to do with the Russians and that my mother didn’t want to frighten me. She always tried to protect me by not telling me the whole story. But one day I heard her talking to her friend Pani Lusia, who was visiting. I sat nearby pretending to play with my dolls, but listening attentively. My mother told Pani Lusia she had heard a rumor that children would be taken away from the schools and sent to orphanages to be brought up as good Communists. Nobody paid any attention to me as I continued pretending to play quietly while an image of me alone among strangers flashed through my mind and filled me with a new fear.

  Soon a letter arrived from school, asking about my absence. A friend who was a doctor responded, as a favor to my mother, explaining that I was disabled and would receive tutoring at home. I couldn’t believe it; my mother had taught me never to tell lies, and here she was lying for me. Life was bringing more and more surprises—and most of them not good ones—every day.

  Luckily my friends were able to visit me, and I was allowed to go to their houses, too, so we could still have fun playing with each other. Some of my friends’ parents also found good excuses and made up lies for the authorities so they could keep their children home from school.

  One day there was a loud knocking at our front door. “Open up and let us in,” a deep voice shouted.

  Mila opened the door, and there, in the bright light of the afternoon sun, stood two NKVD officers (Russian security) and a militia interpreter.

  “We need accommodations for the army officers and their families,” the interpreter said to us in Polish.

  My mother appeared, looking very pale. My knees shook as I followed her and the soldiers around the house. “We will take the lower part” (which included the living room, dining room, and study), said one of the NKVD through the interpreter, “and leave you the bedrooms upstairs and access to the kitchen downstairs.”

  A few days later a young couple with a nine-month-old baby moved into our downstairs rooms. The officer was tall, blond, and handsome, and his wife was also blonde, with lovely blue eyes and a pleasant, kind expression. They were rather shy and very poor. The man wore his uniform, but the woman was dressed shabbily in a brown dress that didn’t fit her, a gray jacket, and a straw hat. Her shoes were very worn, and she had no stockings or socks, even though it was quite cold by this time in October. The baby was wrapped in a blanket. They had no suitcases; instead they carried their belongings in two beige canvas bags.

  We were upset that our priva
cy had been invaded, but we also felt sorry for them. It was hard to communicate, but through their gestures, we understood they needed baths. My mother took the woman upstairs and lit the gas water heater to start the bath. We heard the woman scream, and then she ran downstairs. My mother followed, laughing. “She thought I was going to kill her when she saw the flames shoot up. I guess she has never seen a bathtub with a gas water heater.”

  Katia, which we later learned was her name, would never again ask to take a bath. Instead she would heat water in a big kettle in the kitchen and then carry it to a tin-plated bowl set in the middle of the living room, where the three of them slept.

  Always curious, I often peeped through the half-open door to see how they were living in our rooms. I was horrified to find that their pantry full of food supplies was on top of our long black piano. I would certainly not be able to practice piano anymore!

  Even though they were not a frightening family, after they moved in I felt afraid to be alone. I started sleeping with my mother in her bed; Antek’s crib was next to us. It felt better that we were all together at night.

  We were not the only people in the city whose houses were occupied by Russian families. When my mother’s friend Pani Lusia came to visit again, she said, “Do you know what happened in my home? The officer who lives with us came to me this morning with wet hair and complained that our sinks were too low and he had to kneel to wash his hair. It turns out he washed his hair in the toilet!” My mother, Pani Lusia, and I all burst out laughing. Even living in fear, with our homes invaded, had its comic moments.

  Christmas was coming. The stores were empty, but the local open-air market was full of people bringing eggs, chickens, and vegetables from the countryside in horse-drawn carts. There wasn’t as much as usual because the Russians needed to feed the army and each farm had to supply them with a certain amount of food.

  The day before Christmas Mila returned home from her trip to the market empty-handed and very upset. “I couldn’t buy anything,” she told us, “because nobody would accept my money. People around me were in a panic and swearing at the Russians.” Mila explained that when she asked somebody what was going on, she was told that our Polish złoty no longer had any value. Only Russian rubles would be accepted for purchases. “How are we going to buy food for Christmas?” she moaned. “What are we going to do?”

  “This is catastrophic,” my mother said, trying to be calm. “But we will find a solution. I will go to my sister Stefa and find out what she knows. We’ll find a way to raise some money.”

  I listened carefully but couldn’t quite understand. I knew that the Russians were trying to spoil our Christmas, but I didn’t comprehend the seriousness and consequences of devaluing the Polish złoty. Still, I could tell that the news was really bad.

  My mother came back from Ciocia Stefa’s with a solution. “The Russians have no shoes and only rags for clothes. We are going to sell them our clothes and shoes, and then we will have rubles to buy the food we need.”

  My mother, Mila, and I carried our clothing in small bags to the market where the farmers sold their produce. Now it was bustling with city sellers like us. We found whatever space we could and pulled out our dresses, skirts, blouses, and shoes, and bargained with the Russians. “Ten rubles,” Mila would say to an interested Russian, showing her ten fingers. “Nyet, nyet,” the Russian would reply, and display eight fingers. Mila would then spread out nine fingers. If the Russian agreed, the deal was closed to the satisfaction of both parties.

  These were my first lessons in the Russian language. Sometimes the Russian would say, “Nyetu deneg. No money.” Some sellers screamed out prices in Polish and then wondered why the Russians, who understood no Polish, walked away.

  My mother hated the noise and the crowds, but I enjoyed the excitement of haggling. It was much more fun than going to school. And although I was not being formally educated, my experience on the black market proved to be quite valuable later in life.

  From time to time my father risked his life by visiting us. He would slip into the house silently, after it was dark, taking the chance that the residing Russian family would not notice. Perhaps they did, but we were lucky because they never reported him.

  One March evening, as he was leaving after one of his short visits, he took me aside. With a serious expression, he said, “Krysiu, if anything ever happens to me, promise to take care of your brother and help your mother.”

  “What could happen to you?” I asked, trying not to show the fear that suddenly gripped me.

  He didn’t reply, just looked at me sadly. Then he kissed each of us and was gone.

  My mother tried to cheer me up. “Once the war is over everything will go back to normal,” she said.

  I wanted to believe her but couldn’t shake off my growing fear of the future.

  When I was a little girl, I loved sitting on my father’s lap. I missed him terribly when he had to go into hiding.

  5

  Shadows in the Night

  Somebody was ringing the front-door bell. The sound woke me up. I looked at the clock on the wall: Seven in the morning? Who would be visiting so early?

  Then I heard the front door open and steps coming up to the bedroom. My mother and Ciocia Stefa walked in. I pretended to be asleep, but opened my eyes from time to time.

  My mother spoke very quietly, but I could hear her. “Stefa, Stefa, what are you doing here so early? Did something happen?”

  Ciocia Stefa was sobbing as she tried to speak, and her voice sounded frantic. “They arrested Władzio last night. He tried to escape through the back door, but the soldiers had surrounded the house.”

  “The Russians came to arrest Jędruś, too.” I had to strain to hear my mother, who was whispering now. “But, of course, he wasn’t here. They were quiet and didn’t wake the children up. Then they threw everything out of the closets and drawers and left without taking anything. I am going to start packing today; by Sunday we will leave Lwów and go to Hala’s. We will change our names. If you want, you can come with us.”

  Ciocia Hala, my mother’s oldest sister, lived in the town of Drochobycz. She had beautiful blue eyes and golden hair. I used to call her an angel. I loved her very much.

  “I can’t think clearly right now,” Ciocia Stefa said through her tears. “I will let you know. Do widzenia. Good-bye.” I slit open my eyes in time to see my mother and aunt embrace. Then my aunt was gone.

  When I got out of bed a few minutes later, I saw clothing, purses, and shoes on the floor. My mother’s face grew worried as she saw me taking in the scene, but she tried to sound cheerful. “I’m cleaning because we are moving soon.”

  “Fine, Mamusiu, I will help you pack.” Uncharacteristically, I decided not to ask any questions, and my mother did not offer any more information.

  Thursday night I was sleeping peacefully when I suddenly felt someone shaking my arm.

  “Wake up, Krysiu. You have to get up.”

  I opened my eyes to see our neighbor Pani Alina, an elderly woman, bending over me. Next to her, next to my bed, stood a Russian soldier, yellow-skinned, with slanted eyes and a vacant expression, his bayonet fixed on me.

  I pulled the bedcovers over my head, hoping the nightmare would disappear.

  But it was not a dream. Pani Alina forced the blanket off my face. “Krysiu, I will help you dress. Get up, get up!”

  I opened my eyes again and tried to move, but I was so scared I couldn’t. I started shaking violently, my teeth chattering. The soldier did not move. I noticed Antek sitting in his crib, looking confused while Mila, sobbing loudly over him, tried to dress him.

  Where was my mother?

  Then I heard her screaming in the next room, “You are going to shoot us!”

  “No, no,” a man’s voice replied.

  Pani Alina gently helped me out of bed and started pulling layers of clothing onto me. The soldier finally lowered his bayonet and walked into the other room.

  My legs
felt weak, but I had to find out what was going on. I went into my father’s library, which was filled with Russian soldiers. All of his leather-bound books had been thrown off the shelves onto the floor. The soldiers were poking them with bayonets. A few dried leaves had fallen out of the pages of some of the books and were being crumbled by the soldiers’ feet. I realized these were the beautiful leaves I had collected that last peaceful autumn of 1938 and placed in those books to dry.

  What were the Russians looking for? My father was a kind man who always helped people. Why would they suspect him of doing anything wrong? I was afraid of the soldiers, but they just glanced at me and then ignored me as I passed into the next room.

  Here, in a bedroom that had been converted into our dining room, my mother was sitting at the table opposite a Russian officer. The room was filled with soldiers and strange men who, I found out later, were Polish militia and interpreters, Communists collaborating with the Russians. The officer was writing something down, and a Polish collaborator sat next to him, translating my mother’s words. I heard them asking my mother about my father and her telling them she didn’t know where he was, didn’t have his address. The officer turned to me and said something in Russian, which I didn’t understand. I thought I noticed a flicker of emotion—pity, perhaps—in his eyes as he looked at me. Maybe I reminded him of his own children? Maybe it was my imagination, but as we stared at each other I thought that he probably hated what he had to do, that he was acting on orders, and that he felt sorry for me, an innocent victim of these dreadful circumstances.

  “We will take you to see your father,” the interpreter told me. But if they didn’t know where he was, how could they do that? I realized he was lying. Where were they going to take us? Why did we have to leave our house?